


Hunger

by nanokouw



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Freckles, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Marriage, Regrets, Retirement, Work In Progress, learning to be married, post movie: Downton Abbey, smutty deliberations, the glory of the female body, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-01-16 12:24:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 52,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21271004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanokouw/pseuds/nanokouw
Summary: This story continues on from the Downton Abbey movie. It’s about Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes and about their life together as they navigate the unchartered territory of his retirement.There are a few bumps in the road and there’s a lot to be explored.What you will find here is an unedited work in progress. I will be posting the day’s winnings (or losses… I’m fooling no-one here) every day. Comments are always welcome, but please keep in mind that this is a story still in development: it is not a story I am putting on FFN (yet).





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will not be remotely spoiler free for the Downton Abbey movie!  
GO BACK NOW IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BE SPOILED

**Day 1:**

* * *

"We receive the body of our sister Violet, with confidence in God, the giver of life, who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead."  
  
Mr Travis's voice drones on as it always does. He is getting on, the little white-haired vicar of Downton's small church. He doesn't stand as straight as he once did, but Elsie supposes that she doesn't either. She glances around her. All the pews are filled. In the front pews are the family, the tenants are in the back. The servants are in between and next to her is her husband who is looking very pale.  
  
The news came as a great shock to him, almost as if he expected the Dowager Countess to be immortal. Elsie has not said anything about it; instead she has given her husband space to grieve in his own way, in his own time. After all: it's only been a week since the old lady passed away and Charlie had known her for a great many years.  
  
Lady Grantham and Charlie were - in forgotten vernacular - sympatico.  
  
They fondly remembered a time gone by. A time when servants and those who paid them were still referred to in 'All things bright and beautiful'. _God made them high and lowly, and ordered their estate._ While it may still be partially the way things are, Elsie feels lucky there are other chances for young people.  
  
"I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die."  
  
Next to her, her husband presses his handkerchief against his eyes. She sighs a little at it. Her husband once told her she was sentimental, but he's much worse than she ever was. She used to think it was an endearing quality, but when it's in church and over an old woman who probably mostly thought of Charlie as someone who catered to her, it's much more irritating than sweet.  
  
Mr Travis's words glide over her. She doesn't pay them much attention. They are the same words they have always been. Every funeral she has been in Yorkshire has been the same. The order of things, the words spoken. She supposes they are comforting for some.  
  
"We are already God's children, but what we shall be has not yet been revealed, yet we know that when Christ appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is."

* * *

The men are upstairs. There are sandwiches and coffee served to the friends and family who have come to pay Lady Grantham their last respects. The house is full and she can hear the noise carry through the green baize doors and down the stairs. She has seen enough funerals to know that though it can be a very sad occasion, it often is a bit of a reunion.  
  
By the sound of it, that part of proceedings has started.  
  
She knows that it will be hours before her maids can clean up after the guests and she won't be back at the cottage before midnight. Elsie sighs. Sometimes she wishes she still had her room in the attics. The trek back and the early morning wake up call don't seem worth the effort.  
  
Maybe if she were still young, it might have had it's merits. If her marriage was like Anna's. But it isn't and it's a long walk indeed, through the damp night to arrive at a dark place where the heating is no longer on and her husband is fast asleep. More often than not he doesn't even notice her slipping in beside him. She always seems to be gone before he wakes in the morning, but she knows he does hear her alarm.  
  
He just has the luxury to turn over.  
  
Perhaps she is just envious. Or a little disappointed that her husband doesn't pay her much attention, even if she knows that he is asleep. It's not his fault. He does ask her about her day very intensely when she comes home for their tea in the evening.  
  
Sometimes she feels as if she is being interrogated.  
  
She tells herself it is because he misses being there with her. That it can't be easy to be by yourself all day with nobody to talk to after having bossed around juniors for thirty or forty years. She understands he must be lonely.  
  
But when she comes home, she wants a few moments to herself. Someone to listen when she talks about how she feels instead of him asking if they are still using the same silver polish. Sometimes she wishes he would ask after Mrs Patmore's health and not if she is keeping the upstairs dinners up to standard. Because why wouldn't she be and why can't he just be a bit kind like that. He has always been caring when they were still under the roof of the big house.

* * *

"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" 

  
"I'm sorry, Mrs Patmore. You caught me daydreaming." Elsie puts down her pen and turns to face her friend.  
  
"No matter. Do you think I ought to make more for them upstairs? By the sound of it, the wake is not over by far."  
  
Elsie pushes her chair back and stands up. Her back complains: sitting too long in the same position is taking its toll more and more these days. Her time as a sprightly young thing are well and truly behind her.  
  
"I'll go and check with Mr Barrow. I have a feeling we'll be here a while."  
  
"You ought to set off home," Mrs Patmore says, frowning.  
  
"Would be a fine chance if I could. But as long as my maids are up, so am I." She smiles at Mrs Patmore. "That's the way it's always been and especially today it wouldn't be right to do things less than perfectly."  
  
Elsie knows what Charlie would say about her jumping ship. He'd not be best pleased with her and he would go on and on her being lax and about Lady Grantham having standards and did she have to disappoint him today of all days? She'd rather not confront herself with that.

* * *

When she arrives at the cottage, she is cold to the bone. Her knee aches from going up and down the stairs all day. She has made up extra guest rooms for those who decided to stay after all. The house almost feels full to bursting for the first time since before the war. He'll be sad he is missing out.

  
She turns her key in the lock, feeling every inch the housekeeper.  
  
"I'm home!" she calls up.  
  
"How was it?"  
  
He is standing in the doorway of the kitchen in his shirtsleeves. He is looking downcast and tired.  
  
"Crowded," she answers as she takes off her hat, her coat, her shoes. Her shawl is moist from the night air and there are droplets of water in her fringe.  
  
"How was his Lordship?"  
  
"A little subdued, which was to be expected."  
  
"And Lady Mary?"  
  
"Lady Grantham would have been very proud of her eldest granddaughter," Elsie says and rubs her forehead.  
  
"I should think so. Lady Mary has always took after her grandmother and I am certain today was no exception."  
  
She doesn't know what to say to that. She shrugs instead, goes into the kitchen, right past her husband. When she touches the kettle, it's cold and she sighs again. It would have been nice to have been welcomed back with a cup of tea and a kind word.  
  
Lady Grantham's funeral has shaken her more than she cares to admit. The old lady was formidable. At times larger than life. Her exacting standards were difficult to live up to, but Elsie always enjoyed a challenge. When someone thinks she can't do it, she usually sets out to prove them wrong. In the end Lady Grantham and Elsie had learned to see the best in the other and now -  
  
It's not just the end of an era for Charles, even if he pretends this is the case.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asks, still in the doorway.  
  
"I am cold. I want to fill my hot water bottle and make myself a cup of tea before I turn in."  
  
"Are you boiling the kettle?" He sounds as if she were quite mad.  
  
"That I am," she admits through gritted teeth.  
  
"That's very wasteful," he warns her and she turns around, a little at a loss.  
  
"I am cold and I have had a trying day. I don't think making a cup of tea and having something to warm my feet in my bed is wasteful."  
  
She can hear her voice echoing shrilly against the bare walls of the small kitchen.  
  
"I don't want to argue," he says and she can see how tired he is. He ought to have been in bed long ago.  
  
"Nor me," she responds and leans against the kitchen table. "Today must have been very difficult for you," she adds.  
  
Charlie nods. "I'll go upstairs."  
  
"I'll be up in a minute," she promises.  
  
"Be careful," he warns and she nods. She miles gently at him and watches him ascend the stairs with slow steps.

* * *

"I've known Lady Grantham my entire adult life," Charles says when she arrives upstairs with the tea tray. There are two cups on it. No biscuits though. She wouldn't enjoy sleeping in the crumbs. 

  
"Here," she brings his mug to his side of the bed. They sleep as much on their own side as if they were in two separate beds, though sometimes, when the moon is right and all the stars are aligned, he puts his arm around her and she feels as if she is in the place she was always meant to be.  
  
To be so safe and cherished is a great blessing and she knows that he loves her. It's in those small moments. They just...  
  
They talked easier when they were both still in his Lordship's employ. They were equals - or as good as. They knew what to expect and what to do with the unexpected. In the cottage everything is new and he is retired against his will and she is so tired. She knows he would love to haunt the halls of Downton but she would like to have his attention whilst he is still alive.


	2. day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of nanowrimo 2019:  
The story really begins and Elsie contemplates her life with her husband as it's been the past few weeks

**day 2**

* * *

The bed is forty-seven inches wide and she knows this because she ordered new sheets for the mattress when they were first married. She lovingly embroidered their initials in the corners and put them in the cupboard. Every time she changes the linen on the beds, she smiles. The preparations for the wedding had been overshadowed by the drama surrounding the venue, but the preparations for their life together had been quietly thrilling.   


Stitching the Cs in corners of those sheets, but also in the corners of the towels and tea towels. Going over the inventory in the cottage and ordering what she felt was necessary. Setting things up for their life together had been a wonderful thing. Checking the bookshelves were sturdy enough for their combined collection; looking over the bedroom to choose the perfect place for the bed and armoire. She measured the windows for the curtains to be replaced and she is very pleased with the fabric she has chosen.   
  
Everything in the cottage is coming together slowly and she knows it would be going quicker if she were there more. If she would spend more time with her husband. It's not always easy for Elsie to leave Mrs Hughes behind in her parlour. When she manages it, it is easy being Mrs Carson, but sometimes she takes work home with her and sits across from her husband as he reads the evening papers thinking about the laundry over-starching the sheets for his Lordship's dressing room.    
  
Or something equally unimportant.   


After all: Lord Grantham normally sleeps in his wife's bed. The way Charles usually sleeps in their bed next to her. The dressing room sheets are of so little consequence. Elsie considers that there are nights she sleeps rather later than would be wise. Sometimes she forgets that Mrs Hughes needs to be back bright and early in the morning. The alarm always goes off too early and it is especially difficult now the nights are lengthening.   
  
So far nobody has said anything about her being tardy by five or ten minutes. If Mrs Patmore knew, she would have some choice remarks and Elsie doesn't want any of the others to hear those. Even if she can imagine the remarks to be quite funny.    
  
Sometimes Elsie wishes Mr Mason would pluck up a little more courage and ask the cook to go out with him. It doesn't have to be anything fancy: they are not the kind of people who dine at the RItz or the Savoy, but maybe to the flicks in Ripon or maybe just for tea in Thirsk. It would be so nice for Mrs Patmore to have someone who cares for her. Elsie is being cared for very deeply and maybe that is why she wants the same for her friend.    
  
It's nice having a husband: someone to come home to. Even if he does make her blood boil sometimes. Like when he doesn't even glance at her when the frankly no longer young eldest daughter of the house barges into your cottage and pleads she can't receive royalty without Charles Carson.   
  
Yes, Elsie was flattered. And no: she had not for a second expected her husband to decline such a request. Of course not. She knows what he is like and she knows how he feels about the family. Especially Lady Mary. Elsie doesn't mind, not really. But it would have been nice to have been taken into consideration. Just a little.    
  
She had asked him - when Lady Mary was well on her way back - if it was wise. If he thought he could manage. She pointed out his tremor was all but gone and that it was because he no longer had to carry the heavy load of being in charge of a large household staff. He took his job as Butler more than seriously. Almost as if he was divinely appointed. Elsie smiles. It's not true, she is exaggerating. She has always admired him for his sense of duty, even if sometimes it got in the way of what she would call  _ real life _ .    
  
Real life is waking up at six from an alarm on your side of the bed and turning it off as quickly as you can. It's getting dressed in the bathroom so you won't disturb your husband's slumber - who has earned a lie in after having been in service for over forty years. Real life is walking to the big house come rain or come shine to arrive just in time for the servants' breakfast.    
  
Real life is going about her daily work the way haa has done since she was promoted Housekeeper so many years ago she can't even truly remember. It's dealing with quibbeling maids and missing invoices. It's talking to Mr Barrow while he is still  _ Thomas _ in her mind and trying to learn to deal with the way he does things.    
  
Not that they are so very different from Charlie's. Thomas was trained by Mr Carson and it shows, but he is a modern man and Elsie doesn't always find it easy to wrap her head around the way he wants to change things. More often than not, he decides to change things back to the way they were. Which also makes her roll her eyes.    
  
Elsie understands that Thomas has to find his way and he had been doing very well until the royal visit. Now he needs to establish once again that he is indeed butler to the Earl of Grantham. He needs to make himself heard again. To wipe the memory of Mr Carson from the Servants' Hall. Well, not quite wipe it away, but to let everybody know there is a different wind blowing.    
  
Charles had been such a reassuring figure for many of them downstairs for the duration of the royal visit. Elsie admits it freely. She felt as if nothing had really changed. Perhaps Charlie didn't pour the wine - or any of the many other drinks - but he was so steadily there. Standing in the corner of the room, sizing up the guests and the goings on; being exactly what people needed him to be. That was his gift.    
  
Elsie knows he has been bored. That there isn't much to occupy his mind. His vegetable patch is only so much distraction and it provides them mostly with cucumbers and string beans. She knows she shouldn't make light of his hard work, but…   
  
He is capable of such great things and she wishes she knew what she could offer him to keep his mind agile and his talents in top shape. She knows that he has kept his Butler's Book and she supposes that when she is away at work, he sets the table for an imaginary regimental dinner and practices the correct ways to address marchionesses and viscounts, even if he doesn't need to. Announcing guests - of noble birth or not - has been etched into his mind, just as choosing wine is and polishing silver. He can be relied on providing anyone with any information regarding his job.   
  
His former job.   
  
Because as a husband, Charlie Carson still has some catching up to do.   
  
As Elsie has being his wife.   
  
They have lived their lives separately for so long, it's not been easy to merge them. Most of what has been difficult for her, is the way they communicate. Back in her sitting room or his pantry, it was always easy, but now she sometimes feels as if they don't quite get the other's meaning.   
  
Mr Carson has always lived for the family and she can't expect him to suddenly change. To give her all his attention and to consider her in a different way he used to when she was only the Housekeeper. Being Charlie's wife is lovely, but she too finds it difficult sometimes to just say what she thinks. It can be hard to find the words. They are learning together and that is what matters, she thinks as she slides her hand over the sheet she has made the bed with.   
  
Perfectly straight. Tight corners. Not a wrinkle to discontent either of them.   
  
Elsie recalls when they were just married, Charlie would criticise her for her corners and she had been irritated, finding it difficult to just take his thoughtless words. Especially because it was his fault those corners didn't stay put.   
  
Even now she blushes and they are almost two years on. They have laid together since those first days of their marriage. Perhaps not as often as she had expected when she sent out Mrs Patmore with the odious task of finding out if her fiance was interested in that side of things. He had said he wanted everything that a marriage involves and had almost called the whole thing off when he thought that she didn't.   
  
She did.   
  
She learned that there are times she quite enjoys it. Even if it is something that happens infrequently.   
  
She picks up another sheet and lets it billow over the mattress. It's not the correct way of doing things, but it is so satisfactory. Seeing the air trapped under the cotton and then slowly disappearing, leaving the sheet to lie perfectly over the other. She picks up the blanket and puts it on the bed the way she was once taught by the previous Housekeeper of Downton Abbey. She folds the sheet back over the top of the blanket and carefully tucks in the bottom and lower sides.   
  
The way she knows Charles likes it.   
  
Elsie doesn't: she always pulls the covers away and leaves at least one of her feet out in the cool night air. She often sleeps with her leg wrapped around the blanket, bare to the night. Charlie had been a little surprised by that. He had often tried to tuck her in until she finally told him that she needed the space. That she couldn't bare to feel trapped under the heavy woolen blanket.   
  
She no longer feels obliged to wear the warm flannel nightgowns. Whenever she gets cold during the night, she just slides a little closer to her husband. Which is definitely a perk of being married:   
  
to never spend the night awake shivering from cold. 

  
  



	3. Day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is day 3 of nanowrimo 2019 and it isn't easy to just publish something that isn't edited and that you know isn't up to your own standards. It is also very liberating, not having to go over something a million times and still not being satisfied. So make of it what you will; there will always be tomorrow if this chapter doesn't do it for you ;)

**day 3**

* * *

When Lady Mary knocked on the door and Charlie had let her in, Elsie had been darning one of her husband's socks. He had been reading to her and she thought her life was almost perfect in that moment. She loves listening to him, as his voice carries beautifully and he manages to make even Dickens sound interesting, which is nothing short of a miracle (but she can’t imagine him reading D.H. Lawrence to her.)   
  
She likes having Charles so close. To feel his body heat as he is sat next to her. She gently pulled the thread through the cotton of his sock, passing the marble egg she had purchased especially for the purpose of mending his clothes. She could barely think of anything that would illustrate wedded bliss better. To look after her husband's wardrobe while he tended to her in a completely different way was something she never dreamed she could have.    
  
When they were first married, they were both still at the beck and call of the Crawley family, but now they are tucked away in their cottage on Sunday afternoons and have to please no-one but themselves. She darns his socks and knits little jumpers for Johnny Bates. He reads to her from Dickens and the Sunday papers. They take strolls together, exploring the countryside.    
  
They have both lived in Downton for so long, but there are always new paths they haven't taken and hilltops they haven't been to. He puts her arm through his and they walk together. He measures his strides to hers and she feels so free, being able to breathe in the clean air. To be with the man she loves so deeply. So dearly. They can be quiet together, which is such a gift. Neither of them feel the need to fill every lull in their conversation with empty phrases. Even if she enjoys his stories and even though there is still so much they can learn about both their pasts and about what they are hoping for now.   
  
Sometimes they speak of their childhood homes, of friends they have lost along the way, but at other times it is very welcome to hear the familiar words of David Copperfield or Bleak House spoken in Charles's familiar voice to feel as if they were almost alone in the world.   
  
So when there was a knock on the door and Elsie heard the voice of Lady Mary, she had unceremoniously thrown the sock, marble egg and needle in her basket and quickly put it out of the way. Somehow it felt too intimate to be seen by anyone but Charlie. More even than the tea tray she hadn’t put away yet and that still stood on the table: a token of her lazy ways.    
  
Elsie felt acutely that Lady Mary didn't need to know that Elsie mended socks out of economy. She didn't need to see the slightly chaotic basket that held Elsie's knitting and mending. Most of all she didn't need to see the blush on Elsie's cheeks because of the suggestion Mr Carson made mere seconds before Lady Mary barged in.   
  
A snooze in the afternoon.   
  
They never snoozed in the afternoon. They didn't even nap. Not for fifteen minutes - after all: they weren't tiny children nor yet in their dotage. So the suggestion was of a completely different variety for the use of a bed and it had made her breath hitch in her throat and her cheeks burn: to do such a thing in the bright light of day had scared and thrilled her a little. Lady Mary coming into the parlour was not something Elsie was prepared for, to say the least.    
  
She shouldn't have worried, though: Lady Mary didn't throw her more than an off-hand look and Elsie’s husband didn't so much as glance at her when Lady Mary asked her champion to carry her favour into battle once more.   
  
There was nothing for it, of course he offered and Lady Mary was well aware that Charles Carson could never deny her anything. Elsie hadn't thought he would even contemplate telling his Lady Mary 'no'.   
  
After all he only had done so once before. When Charles had declined the offer of becoming Butler at Hexham. When Lady Mary was briefly engaged to Sir Richard Carlisle. Elsie remembers vividly how hurt Charlie had been when Lady Mary showed what Elsie felt were her true colours. But this request was different. This was because of the royal visit and Lady Mary had absolute faith in Charlie and Elsie wouldn't deny that she was excited about the King and Queen staying at Downton. Actually occupying seats in the dining room and perhaps even staying in two of the guest rooms.   
  
But the royal visit is behind them now and Elsie remembers feeling Lady Mary was less than charitable about the way Thomas was handling things. Thomas, who was simply awaiting instructions from the royal household. Which was actually very much in line with what Charlie had taught the boy. To listen to your betters and to follow orders - perhaps not always without comment, but to do it to the letter so those on a higher sport of the ladder will commend you as they look past their noses at you.    
  
Elsie can still feel her blood boil when she thinks about the royal housekeeper. And that was keeping the page of the backstairs out of the equation.    
  
How did he dare speak to her the way he did? Mr Bates had come to her defense, but still the page - a ridiculous name for a ridiculous man - kept being an absolute…

Arse, her father would have said and frankly, Elsie thinks that is being generous.   
  
Charlie had been quite overwhelmed by the kerfuffle the royal staff had brought with them: not eating with the regular staff and complaining about the water. As if that wasn't bad luck enough. She had not sought it behind Anna, but her little scheme had paid off terribly well. Elsie had always been the one the scheme downstairs and it is good to know that once she leaves, there will be someone to take up the baton.    
  
Charles Carson had been the exemplary butler during the faithful royal dinner and his footmen had served the king and queen without them noticing. Until Mr Molesley pulled one of his stunts. The poor man had been devastated in the morning, when how he behaved really dawned on him. Charlie had not been best pleased with him, but in the end, Charles’s magnificence and his experience had saved the visit and she had been bursting with pride.   
  
She had tried to show him, too, when they got home. She remembers his right hand on her hip, trembling. The tremor was much worse than when he first retired and she knew it was build up nerves. She had taken the hand in both of hers and she had kissed the palm and the tips of his fingers.    
  
Elsie bites her lip. It doesn't do to think of such things in broad daylight, when anyone can come through the door. She really can't be found to be daydreaming about the way her husband her loved her that night - different from before, more… well, she doesn't really know, but still. 

When she woke the following morning, she felt all her muscles ache and her knees and shoulders clicked when she stretched before getting out of bed. Charles was still fast asleep and she had busied herself with making tea and toast and she brought it upstairs. Breakfast in bed for the conquering hero, though she was dog-tired after having done the work of a housemaid (or two) for weeks. 

Even though she was expected back at the house. 

He thought her very silly but smiled and her heart jumped at that. His gratitude was exactly what she needed to being made to feel she wasn’t being taken for granted. 

Today, however, she is alone in her Housekeeper’s parlour and she misses her husband terribly. Working together during the royal visit had been lovely and now it’s all back to the humdrum routines without the reward of his praise or even his critical remarks. There’s nobody there to push back against. 

Although…

There’s always Beryl Patmore.   
  
Mrs Patmore has been a very good friend to Elsie the past months as Elsie tried to come to terms with working at Downton without her husband closeby. Mrs Patmore has made them many meals and has indeed shown Elsie some dishes she could easily cook on her own.    
  
As a thank you, Elsie has been pushing her friend towards Yewtree Farm at any given opportunity. Mr Mason is very fond of Mrs Patmore and even Daisy is seeing the joy in Mrs Patmore when the farmer pays the cook a compliment. So Elsie sends out her friend to aide Daisy with the canning, to bring Andy and Mr Mason some treats while Daisy is working hard on a regimental dinner. She lingers after church so Charlie can talk to Mr Mason for a while before returning to the cottage.   
  
None of it is very subtle, but Mrs Patmore herself has always been about as subtle as a sledgehammer.    
  
With a little bit of luck, she'll have Mr Mason on one knee before spring, but until then, she will at least have one person nearby who remembers what life was like when they worked for the Dowager. When they were one of the many and on separate teams. When Elsie was just another housemaid and Mrs Patmore was just Beryl, one of the kitchen maids. When Charles was just a footman. When their futures weren't set in stone and when there were possibilities. When she could train as a lady's maid or even go a different way altogether, with a husband and some children. When Beryl already knew that she had the stamina to be in it for the long haul. When Charlie tried so very hard to forget his glittering past on the stage. When they were all hard-working cogs in a well-oiled machine. Elsie and Mrs Patmore have history together in a way Elsie hasn't with Anna or Thomas.    
  
Elsie bites the back of her pen, which is a bad habit of hers, but one nobody knows about. Well. There is someone who knows, but he isn't here and she isn't going to give it much conscious thought. She does have a history with both Anna and Thomas. In a way she doesn't have with the rest of the younger staff.   
  
She has held both of them in her arms as they cried.   
  
Moments where she was herself before she was Housekeeper. When she could give something of herself, of the person that she was.    
  
A glimpse of the person she might have been.

  
  



	4. Day 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many niggling feelings and reminders of things that happened in the past - day 4 of NaNo is here with mostly thoughts and little action. I bet it is going somewhere. I'll let you know where once I figure it out.

**day 4**

Anna Bates is the only one left of the group of maids who came to Elsie’s care before the war. The war seems so far away and still it also feels so near that she can still hear the hustle and bustle of recuperating men in the house when she thinks about them. Gone is Gwen - onto spectacular, new adventures - and gone is Ethel.    
  
For a few moments Elsie ponders the fate of the former Housemaid. What might have become of her. Perhaps she is still with the Bryants and it could well be that little Charlie still doesn't know the truth of his parents. Maybe Mr Bryant has passed away - Elsie wouldn't be surprised if that were the case: the man had a terrible temper and she can easily imagine him having a heart condition because of it. Or despite of it.    
  
About the other many maids, the less being said about Edna the better and Elsie has practically completely forgotten about Jane. Who Lord Grantham had made her write a glowing reference for - which wasn't difficult to do as Jane was hard-working, clean about her person, quick and respectful. Still, it had been strange how she suddenly had to leave.    
  
Or at least Charles had thought it strange. It had not been very strange to Elsie, who could sense the guilt from both Jane and his Lordship a mile off.    
  
At least she doesn't have to deal with Sarah O'Brien and that has been a saving grace for the past couple of years. That woman would manipulate anyone and anything to get what she wanted. Even if Elsie isn't entirely sure what it is that Miss O'Brien wanted: betterment of course, yes. But something else. Something she seemed to be chasing and never finding. She had an eye for finding the weaker, the ones less clever (for there's no two ways about it, the Lady's Maid was indeed clever and sly) and she always knew who to pit against the other.   
  
Miss Baxter is not truly Elsie's: she is too much her own woman and answers directly to Lady Grantham. The way Miss O'Brien did, but Miss Baxter is such a gentle, reliable soul. Elsie respects the Lady's Maid for her skill and her strength and would say that she is more of an equal and one Elsie is pleased to be sharing responsibilities with at that.   
  
And Daisy - well. Daisy had never been hers.    
  
But if she thinks about the ones she has held in her arms, Daisy is one of them. Once. During that one truly devastating night when they lost Lady Sybil. When Mrs Patmore was too overcome to comfort her charge, Elsie had stepped forward and pulled the shivering girl against her and allowed her to cry against her, wrapped up and held close.   
  
In her pain, she tried to comfort and that proved to be something Elsie didn't know she could still do.    
  
Like when Thomas was crying outside in the rain and she had dragged him back inside. She allowed him to cry as he sat on the chair facing hers and she had rubbed his shoulder, knowing he wouldn't take well to being held to her. His pride would prevent it, as well as the wall he had built around himself. Her gentle touch had been a breach of that barrier and Elsie hadn't dared to push him further.    
  
She had not thought he would reach a lower ebb than he had that night, but when Andy had come to her sitting room, panting and panicking, she had made her way up the stairs to find him more dead than alive in the tub with Miss Baxter ripping her combination to shreds to bandage Thomas's self-inflicted wounds.   
  
She blamed herself. Of course she did. She had failed to see the depth of Thomas's despair and she ought to have seen. She ought to have noticed that he was being driven too far by both Charles and his Lordship. It would have been more of the latter than the first. Thomas had always been used to a certain degree of disdain from the butler, but to be dismissed so easily by Lord Grantham… well. It must have struck such a blow and Elsie had not considered how it would leave something cracked inside of him.   
  
When Thomas found a job, he had spoken in a detached way that nobody would miss him, and she had tutted at his self-deprecating words and she had told him to give her a kiss. Which she could almost feel Charlie rolling his eyes at. But it had made a difference in his departure to her and hopefully to Thomas. Together with the children coming downstairs to say goodbye. Which, Elsie concedes, was very kind of Lady Mary.   
  
And now Thomas is Mr Barrow once again and he sits at Charlie's desk and he sits in Charlie's seat at the head of the table and… oh, she knows that is the way it ought to be, but it's not easy. Thomas had not wanted to twist Charlie's arm, but in the end it was Lord Grantham's decision and there probably was a bit of bittersweet revenge for the man who was once a footman under the watchful eye of a strict and stern Butler. For her it remains difficult to think of him as Mr Barrow, even if she has called him that so many times. In her mind he is still Thomas and he still needs her guidance sometimes. Almost in the way Charles had needed it. Though Thomas seeks her approval more. She can feel he wants to make her proud. To make Charlie proud.   
  
With Anna, things are different. She has held Anna in her arms and close to her corset frequently, compared to the others. She has cared for this girl more than anyone else under this roof. Well. In that specific way. You can't compare the love Elsie feels for Charlie to the feelings she has for Anna; they are not in the same realm, though both emotions are strong.   
  
Elsie held Anna in her arms when Mr Bates was taken to prison and when that terrible, gruesome thing happened that night Dame Nellie Melba sang like an angel upstairs and they were allowed to listen. Another thing Elsie will never forgive herself for. Allowing Anna to go downstairs on her own, not having gone with her. Time may have softened the edges of Elsie's anger and shame, it will never vanish. She really ought to have gone with Anna, and her only excuse she didn't go is because she was entranced by the beauty of the music they rarely get to hear.   
  
Elsie is thankful Anna seems to be alright now. Anna must be the strongest person Elsie knows and the fact that Anna is back to her plucky, confident self has very little to do with Elsie being there to care for her. She tried, of course. But Elsie knows there wasn’t much she could do. All she could offer was to be there. To stay in the background and be steady. To be that silent, almost invisible support.   
  
Now there's Johnny, too. He is a delight and Elsie wishes she could see more of him. She sometimes looks intot the nursery where he plays with Miss Caroline and she has to force herself to walk past. Elsie feels jealous of Lady Grantham sometimes, for she sees her grandchildren an hour every day after tea and Elsie rarely sees Johnny. Lady Merton sees George at least once a week, but then again: she is Master George's grandmother and even Miss Caroline calls the former Mrs Crawley ‘Granny’.   
  
Not that Elsie would call herself Johnny’s grandmother.    
  
That is not her place. It's just this niggling feeling that perhaps she might like to be.

Charles would be appalled by her thoughts just now. He doesn't really let himself get attached to the younger generation. He was obviously very upset when first Mr Bates, and later Anna were incarcerated, but that was equally for the reputation of the house as it was because of the welfare of these two members of staff.   
  
To Mr Carson the reputation of the house and its inhabitants is everything and Elsie has always known that. She doesn't know if these beliefs are also a part of Charlie Carson. The man she married and who she finds in her bed every night.    
  
There is still a lot to learn about him and there are things they should be discussing about their future together.   
  
Does he feel there is still a lot to learn about her, too? Does he know that even if she feels strongly, she keeps her heart guarded? Does he worry about either of them falling ill, of having to change the way they live through unforeseen circumstances?   
  
But Elsie can't contemplate any further, as there is a knock and then Helen's freshly scrubbed face is being stuck around the door.   
  
"Do you have a moment, Mrs Hughes? Only we are trying to get this stain out of the carpet and it won't budge," the girl says in thick dialect.   
  
Elsie nods. "Where is it?" she asks and follows the maid to the dining room where apparently one of last night's guests hasn't been too careful taking  _ beurre blanc _ from the dish.   
  
Her knees click as she crouches down to look at the stain and sends Helen for baking soda, a brush and green soap. There are still plenty of unused cloths in the basket the girl had taken up to the dining room and Elsie waits patiently for Helen's hurried footsteps. The girl is a keen student, but Elsie knows she won't stay on long. Once she has learned all the secrets of cleaning a house and running it, she will marry a local lad and set up house herself.   
  
That's the way things are done now.    
  
"Give me your apron," Elsie says to Helen and takes it from her, puts it on and takes the baking soda from the table. She sprinkles the white powder liberally on the stain and waits.    
  
This Persian rug has seen its fair share of stains (Elsie shudders to think about the amount of blood she was forced to clean from it when Lord Grantham had his funny turn), so she doesn't feel too guilty about putting it through such a biting solution.   
  
If it works, it works. There's no need to be sentimental about a rug and she isn't. Elsie knows she is lucky Mr Carson isn't around to witness it.   
  
He would find it very hard to watch.   
  
  


  
  



	5. Day 5

**day 5**

When he wakes, he knows he is alone.    
  
He touches the sheets where he knows she slept and finds them already cold. It must be later than he initially thought. Slowly he opens his eyes and blinks against the bright of day. He can hear her alarm clock ticking and squints to see the time.   
  
It's gone well past eight.    
  
He rubs his face with both hands and sighs deeply. He is not proud of his new-found ability to sleep so late, even if Elsie says it is a perk of being retired. That she envies him.   
  
Which would be sweet if he didn't envy her for having to wake up early and go into the house and be useful.    
  
Of course he makes himself useful around the cottage, but there are only so many plain glasses to polish and those six silver teaspoons are barely worth the mention of silver polish. So he works in his garden. He grows them vegetables and he grows flowers for her and doesn't listen to her teasing him when she comes home from work with a basket full of food and fruit. He enjoys his homegrown cucumbers and peas.   
  
He knows his wife appreciates the flowers he cuts for her.   
  
Charles shaves and dresses. He takes pride in his appearance and takes his time with the razor. Elsie bought him an American invention called a 'safety razor' and he doesn't nick himself as much as he did with a straight one. He knows Elsie worried he would harm himself and it irritated him as much as made him love her all the more.   
  
When he comes downstairs, he finds the table set for his breakfast.    
  
Elsie did that, before she went to the house. Where she will have breakfast with the others. Impeccably toasted bread, light-as-air scrambled eggs. Bacon, crispy and still sizzling on the plate. Cups magically filled themselves with tea, if he remembers correctly.    
  
Though that may have been Elsie, too.   
  
Like the house, their cottage is clean and tidy. Neither of them have messy hobbies nor habits. Gardening is dirty work, yes, of course, but not messy. You put your tools back in the shed, take off your filthy boots and take a bath. There's nothing to it.    
  
He knows some men make wooden ship in glass bottles, but he doesn't have the temperament for that. Not anymore. Not since his bloody hand has started shaking.   
  
The whole time the King and Queen were visiting, he hadn't touched a carafe, serving platter or crystal glass. Only downstairs had he given great thought to picking up his water glass with his non-dominant hand. He had not cut his food until the others were making enough noise to cover the clattering of his cutlery against the plate.   
  
Here, in the kitchen, his knife bounces on the plate without him worrying much about it. When his wife sits next to him, she doesn't say anything about it. She has accepted his infirmity long ago and while he is happy she takes it in stride, he has not come to terms with the way his body betrays him.   
  
If it were only the shaking of his hand, it wouldn't be so bad. But he is losing strength rapidly and he gets winded when they walk to church quickly. She tells him it is because he no longer walks those endless halls and stairs, but he is well aware she says it to appease him.    
  
She would.   
  
Her calm acceptance irks him somehow. Back when they were both working, she could lose her temper something spectacular and he had found it intriguing and oddly attractive. The blush high on her cheekbones and the rapid breathing were the signs he would witness just before an explosion of words would spill from her lips.   
  
These past months she has only lost her temper with other people. A certain member of the royal staff. One of the new maids who come in from the village and don't live at the house. Though he doubts that this particular girl would make it to work on time even if she did sleep in the attics.   
  
The attics where he used to sleep, before he married Elsie. Where she was on the other side of a narrow corridor, the stairs between the hall to the men's and women's quarters. She was close, but he could never touch her. Not that he would have. Of course not. He will - if pressed - admit to having the odd thought to her. When she first accepted his proposal. (And well before, but he could never tell anyone that he tried to imagine the softness of the skin on the inside of her elbow, the dip of her waist when no longer confined and the weight of a breast in his hand.)   
  
He sighs again and touches the teapot. It's cold. Of course it is. Elsie left well before seven and he can't expect the hot water to stay warm for hours. Even if he would like it to. If he would like for things to stay the same for longer.   
  
He misses being part of something.    
  
Being the Butler of Downton Abbey meant something. It meant he was someone. Not just some old duffer in a tweed suit who tries to keep his strength up by digging in his vegetable patch. He had a position of trust and he was relied upon. After the royal visit, he hasn't been needed by anyone and it doesn't sit well with him.   
  
He feels idle. Lonely. Of little importance.    
  
Charles gets up from the wooden chair and puts his used plate and cutlery in the sink before filling the kettle and putting it on the stove to boil. He always washes his things. He could wait until after lunch, the plate is not actually dirty, but still.    
  
It's something to do.   
  
Because that is what ails him, really. He is bored. He has nobody to talk to and he just sits around, waiting for his wife to come home. When she comes through the door, he kisses her and she always smiles. But then she is off into the kitchen to prepare their tea and it isn't before long she is yawning.   
  
He lies awake for long hours until sleep claims him.   
  
He isn't unhappy, not really. He has the love and care of a good woman. A beautiful woman who loves him. That is something he never expected to happen to him. But together with this stupid palsy it is thrown him for a loop.   
  
Charles always meant to die as he lived: as the Butler. Possibly while carrying the tea tray. He had thought to give his life to Downton and not to a woman. His course had changed and he had been so pleased, so happy. But now he sits in the cottage, alone. In the silence. His books his only friends.   
  
Not that he had actual friends at the Abbey, but people respected his opinions. Even if they didn't like him much, like Thomas Barrow. But Lord Grantham had always held Charles in great esteem and there was Lady Mary, of course. And even Tom Branson. Who he knows greatly respects Elsie.   
  
Which is no more than should be.   
  
Elsie Hughes is - even if he is married to her and obviously biased - a remarkable housekeeper. She knows everything that happens in a house. She knows where the secrets lie and she keeps them. He doesn't even know how many secrets are stored away in his wife's head.   
  
Or heart.   
  
Because her heart is a closely guarded thing. She is friendly to almost everyone, but she doesn't let anyone come near. Not in the way she allowed Charles to come near. He recalls vividly how they had danced around the other before taking steps in the same direction.   
  
The sea lapping at their feet.    
  
Elsie had to let go of his hand for a moment to pick up her skirts, but she had grabbed it again. Together they waded. The others must have seen them, but nobody said anything about it.    
  
Had it been clear to everybody else before it had been to them?   
  
Charles can't be sure. He knows people seemed pleased for them when they announced they were to marry.    
  
He was pleased to marry Elsie. He means he is pleased he did marry her. He is pleased she comes home to him and that she sleeps next to him. Silently. She barely moves during the night. He often finds her waking in practically the same position as she had fallen asleep. Sometimes he leans over her, just to check if she is still breathing. His heart is in his throat when she lies so still next to him. When he finds her breathing - because the gentle puffs of warm air whisper against the back of his hand - he almost weeps with relief.   
  
In the morning she leaves him to go to work. Where she is still Mrs Hughes and she has great authority and she is confided in. Relied upon.    
  
As he once was.   
  
Charles goes into the hall and puts on his shoes and coat.    
  
A brisk walk is what he needs. He can't stay cooped up in the small rooms that are his own. Outside it's cold, he can tell by the papery blue skies and the few birds that are flying over. He grabs his scarf - that Elsie knitted for him, which had felt almost as intimate as touching her - and goes out the door. The chill nips at his nose.    
  
He walks in the opposite direction of Downton Abbey. He doesn't allow himself to automatically be carried that way. Elsie would give him that tight smile and an almost imperceptible shake of her head if he would show up in the Servants' Hall.    
  
Mr Barrow wouldn't be as forthcoming.    
  
Nor would Charles expect him to be.    
  
It's Thomas's domain now. And Charles Carson is just someone who used to work there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Charles has always been so much more difficult for me than it is writing Elsie. I apologize and humbly ask for your forgiveness… It isn't easy coming up with stuff every day. And I am only human. Though today, even that could be debated. Barely human, me.


	6. Day 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr Bates makes a request and Elsie walks home through the dark, reciting poetry to herself. She's had a bit of a day.

**Day 6**

* * *

"Mrs Hughes?"   
  
"Yes, Mr Bates?"    
  
"Might I have a word?"    
  
Elsie briefly checks the clock, just visible over Mr Bates's shoulder. It is getting late. She holds her sigh with difficulty.   
  
"What is it, Mr Bates?"    
  
Mr Bates looks slightly ill at ease.    
  
"Right, let's go into my parlour, then perhaps you will feel less watched." Elsie opens the door to her parlour. The fire has gone out and it is dark. She flicks the switch and the electric light shines harshly from the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, only partially obscured by a lampshade.   
  
"Well, Mr Bates?" Elsie asks, her patience wearing dangerously thin.   
  
"I was wondering…" he trails off.   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"If you could… erm… have a word with Lady Mary?"   
  
"A word with Lady Mary? Me? About what?" Elsie can feel her eyebrows nearly touching as she frowns so strongly.   
  
"It's been very hard on Anna, lately. The hours Lady Mary keeps."   
  
There's a lot Elsie can say about Lady Mary - the uppity minx has had it tough since her grandmother died and it doesn't always come out as kindness - but she doesn't wake very early, nor does she go to bed very late.    
  
"I couldn't, really. That would be something for Anna herself to discuss with Lady Mary," Elsie says.   
  
"I've tried to convince Anna to talk to Lady Mary, but she won't hear of it." Mr Bates seems both worried and put out.   
  
"Mr Bates, I don't want to seem unkind, but Anna knows that part of being a Lady's Maid is being there early in the morning to dress your lady. And that you're to stay late until the lady calls you to get her ready for the night. Mr Carson would be the first to tell you that this has always been pack and parcel for the job."   
  
Mr Bates rubs his face with one hand. "I know."    
  
"Forgive me, Mr Bates, but I do not understand why you would come to me with your request. Especially if Anna has told you she doesn't want you to interfere."   
  
If Elsie were to hazard a guess, she would say that little Johnny will soon run out of the undivided attention he's been used to in the Bates's cottage. But Elsie has guessed wrong before. A few times, before Johnny was on the way, Elsie could have sworn she could see a subtle shift in the way Anna moved. She must have been mistaken. Those instances where Elsie thought she saw  _ something _ must have been a trick of the light. 

Mr Bates left Elsie's parlour without giving her as much as a little hint as to what he was referring to and Elsie turns off the lights once more. It's time to go home. She is tired and frankly fed up. If people come to her with problems, they need to give her a few hints as to what the problem is, otherwise it is too hard even for her to fix things.    
  
Other people's problems. They always seem to find her.    
  
It's always been that way. Even when she was a child. In school the others would come to her to tell them their sorrow. A father who lost all his money to the dogs. A mother dying of consumption. Little brothers and sisters covered in bruises.   
  
Later the problems seemed trivial. When she lived as a young maid between other young maids. Boy trouble, mostly. And not even that bad. Until it would take a terrible turn and a girl would throw herself off the Sowerby Bridge.   
  
Or worse. And there was nothing trivial about it.    
  
Elsie shakes her head, trying to chase away the terrible images that this unwarranted trip down memory lane has conjured up. she keeps thinking about the secrets she has held since she started working in this house.   
  
Mr Bates's contraption they threw in the lake. Edna trying to trap Mr Branson. A photograph of Miss Marigold in the book Mr Gregson left to Lady Edith.    
  
Wouldn't it be lovely if the secrets Elsie had to keep, were happy ones? Not like keeping sad, lost Becky a secret for such a great many years, even Mr Carson didn't know she had a sister. Not like having had to keep her visits with Doctor Clarkson a secret.   
  
She wishes she could have happy secrets to keep: pretending Father Christmas is real to lend the season an extra sparkle of magic. A present for a special birthday. The promise of new life coming. But those are not the secrets a woman like Elsie gets to keep.   
  
She yawns. Goodness she is tired. It's not so very late, yet, but she puts on her coat and picks up her umbrella.    
  
"You off then?"   
  
"I am, Mrs Patmore."   
  
"Are you alright?" The cook asks.   
  
Elsie shrugs. "It's just the autumn. You know how it is"   
  
Dark mornings and early evenings. Wind and rain and falling leaves. Some people love it, but Elsie's bones are creaking and her skin feels fragile. Her mind races with the storms that brew over the dales. When she slept in the attics, it was just the constant dinghiness of the downstairs servants' quarters. How it would never really seemed to get light. Even the dawn would break grey.   
  
Now Elsie has to go through the weather and while Charles takes it in stride, telling her that it is only a spot of rain, or only a little windy, Elsie finds it harder than she expected. Had it been like this last year?   
  
She knows that with every autumn, she feels a little subdued. Ancient sadness she thinks has finally settled bubbles up. And no matter how much she wants to stay in the warm kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat with her friend, she needs to get home.   
  
"Do I ever!" Mrs Patmore exclaims.   
  
"Best if I go now. Before I lose my courage."   
  
She reaches for the door handle. Pushes it down and steps into the drizzle.

* * *

The Yorkshire nights are almost silent. There's nothing to hear except the wind rustling the dead leaves and scurrying of small night animals in the undergrowth. She doesn't pay it much mind. As long as her feet steadily carry her back to the cottage, she will be fine.  
  
From nowhere the words to a poem she once learned in school start forming under her breath. A mysterious lady locked in a tower, weaving a tapestry. She only sees the world through her mirror for she will be cursed if she looks out to the world directly.  
  
Of course things go wrong. It's a Victorian poem. Elsie stifles a giggle at the melodramatic 'the curse has come upon me!', much the same way she did when she was a girl. The only curse she and her friends knew whas the curse of Eve and whilst no fun in the slightest, it wasn't anything to be so dramatic about.  
  
The poor Lady of Shalott dressed herself in the purest white, found a boat - which was presumably there for her to take - vandalised it by writing her name across the bow and set off. When it took longer than expected, she closed her eyes and apparently froze to death.  
  
Even now Elsie finds it all a little silly. Why do men think women to be so delicate? Why do they assume them to be weak? Even Charles thinks Lady Mary is almost brittle. And while the blow of losing her grandmother has hit Lady Mary very hard, she is not going to keel over at a moment's notice, nor will she die of a broken heart.   
  
She has better things to do. Like preserving her ancestral home and her way of life for her eldest child. She isn't going to break like a twig starved of water. In fact, Elsie is inclined to believe Lady Mary is going to be just fine.   
  
Just like Charles is. Once he gets used to the idea.   
  
"For 'ere she reach'd upon the tide the first house by the water-side, singing in her song she died, the Lady of Shalott", Elsie mumbles. When she turns the corner, she will be able to see the cottage and she hopes the lights will still be on.   
  
It isn't very late. Charles may still be downstairs. If that is the case, there might even be a cup of tea left in the pot. If you squeeze it. Right now Elsie feels so cold, she would be glad of a lukewarm cup of stewed tea.   
  
"She has a lovely face, God in his mercy lend her grace…"  
  
There it is. The cottage. Where her husband resides and she is very pleased to see the lights are still on. There's still smoke coming from the chimney, which means the front room will be nice and warm. She cannot wait to take off her shoes and curl up next to Charlie. She has missed him today, more than she usually does.  


  
That may be the doom and gloom of autumn as well. He always knew when she needed a few choice words or a kindness. He would come into her parlour with a plate of biscuits and he would be there. Solid and real. Especially after their engagement. When they didn't have to hide. When they could just be.    
  
That is the best about the cottage. They can be together and be themselves. On their own. Without anyone looking in on them. Without knocks on doors or shouts from silver pantries. Just the two of them, on their settee, or her on the settee and he in his chair. Reading by the fire. All the good things people talk about when they speak so fondly of autumn.    
  
The smell of apple pie baking in the oven. The sounds of packing Christmas gifts early. A thumb gently rubbing the skin of knuckles as they hold on to one another while they each read their book.    
  
Sometimes it is very easy to be married to Charles Carson, Elsie thinks as she opens the front door and steps inside. Sometimes it is all she could possibly have dreamed of.    
  
"Elsie? Is that you?"

"Were you expecting someone else?" Elsie calls back.   
  
"I ought to have put a candle in the window," Charlie's voice is very close now. Elsie looks up from taking off her shoes and he is standing in the doorway.    
  
"That might be best," Elsie smiles. Not in a million years could have guessed that her husband would make light jokes about a subject he considers very serious.   
  
But she doesn't mind.

  
  



	7. Day 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a chapter that bridges what happened in the first week of writing and what will be happening in the second week. Some sweet moments and some introspection and you know. More of the same, really...

**Day 7**

* * *

Once she is out of her damp coat and shoes, he wraps her in his arms and chases the chill away. He kisses her brow and nuzzles the top of her head.   
  
"I've missed you," she says softly against his spencer.   
  
"Good," he answers and she looks up surprised.   
  
"Why is that good?"   
  
"Because I missed you, too."   
  
Elsie smiles and slowly shakes her head. The past few months her husband has been saying things that simply astonish her. From the moment Charlie said the page of the backstairs had it coming, his words reveal there is a completely unknown side to him for Elsie to explore.   
  
Is there more to her than Charlie thought there would be, as well?   
  
She doesn't know and for now it doesn't matter. All she wants is that promised cup of tea and a hot water bottle to warm the bed. Not that Charlie isn't warm, but the last time she put her cold feet directly against his calf, he immediately got a cramp that took a long time to disappear.    
  
"You would tell me if there's anything wrong, wouldn't you?" he asks and Elsie shrugs.   
  
"If I can."   
  
"More secrets?"   
  
"Not a secret, I don't think. But a request shrouded in mystery."   
  
Charles raises his eyebrows. "Who would come to you with a mysterious request?"   
  
He slowly lets go of her and leads her into the front room.   
  
"The request was straightforward enough, just the reason behind it was being kept from me."   
  
Elsie sits down gingerly. Her lower back is aching and it takes some effort to sit down instead of just flopping.    
  
"Now you are being mysterious with me."   
  
"Mr Bates asked me to speak with Lady Mary about lowering Anna's workload."   
  
She practically counts to three and there it is: "Lady Mary has been very good to Anna and haven't you told me that young ladies these days don't need as much help because of the fashions? Compared to when you…"   
  
"I was never a proper Lady's Maid, Charlie. I only stepped in when necessary and I've no doubt it showed."   
  
"I'm sure you did a wonderful job," Charles compliments her without really knowing that she indeed did a fine enough job. She runs the back of her fingers gently across his cheek.   
  
"You're a great champion to have in your corner, Mr Carson."   
  
"Hmm." He dismisses her compliment so easily. She wishes he understood how much she means it.   
  
"I told Mr Bates that if Anna wanted a lesser workload, she would have to ask Lady Mary herself and he wasn't best pleased."    
  
Now he practically snorts with dismay. "It's not for Mr Bates to be displeased with you. Did he not tell you why he feels Anna is working too hard?"   
  
"He did not. Like I said 'clouded in mystery'." Elsie shrugs. "Sometimes I really wonder why people feel a need to make things difficult."   
  
Elsie leans back against the backrest.    
  
"Perhaps there are things he can't say," Charles suggests.   
  
"Then he should not have taken it up with me. Especially since I was already locking up and getting ready to leave."    
  
"Were you?"   
  
"Of course. It is getting chilly in the evenings and I have no desire to catch my death traipsing through the countryside."   
  
"I doubt you will catch anything during the twenty minutes it takes you to walk from the house, Elsie."   
  
Elsie sighs. "We are not all as robust as you are, Charles Carson."

* * *

While Charles Carson is indeed robust and he is rarely under the weather these days, neither is Elsie. She doesn't get ill. In the past ten years or so, she only sported one or two colds. And of course the terrifying ordeal that she doesn't speak about.   
  
Charles is right: you don't catch your death on your way to a warm and welcoming cottage after being out of the elements all day. She receives three square meals a day with something to sustain her if she needs it. There's always plenty of tea and if she thinks she might fall prey to the sniffles, Mrs Patmore is always willing to make her a concoction of lemon juice, ginger and honey that chase any kind of germ away.   
  
The days she can move mountains on little sleep are behind her, that's true. Her eyes aren't what they were either, but that's nothing some reading glasses won't fix. But sometimes, when one of the maids come to her for an afternoon off, or when the brands that make her favourite cleaning products change the formula of their bluing, she cannot help but roll her eyes.   
  
That means something.   
  
She knows what it means, and now she lies in bed, next to her husband who is fast asleep and she is staring at the ceiling.    
  
Charles's hand was forced: his hand trembled. Apparently a Butler who cannot pour wine isn't worth much. She admires how well he took it. How it didn't take him long to get used to the idea of not being Downton's longest serving Butler.    
  
Will she get used to not being the Housekeeper?   
  
It's different for her than it is for Charlie. He is still a man, his own self. Respected by all. His opinions still put weight in the scale. Besides: he will always have a place in Lady Mary's heart and he will always be a kind of anchor for his Lordship.   
  
When Elsie retires - because that is what is coming, soon, much sooner than she expected five years ago - she will be Charles Carson's wife. She will be forgotten. Housekeepers are rarely the stuff of legends.    
  
Is she ready for that to happen?   
  
She turns over and pulls at the blankets, trying to wrap herself up warm to chase away that cold that seems to have settled deep within.

* * *

He washes the breakfast things and sweeps the kitchen floor. He hums a tune - one he learned once upon a time, when he was a lad and he thought he wanted more adventures than he could possibly have at Downton.    
  
Of course looking back he wasn't wrong, exactly. Service isn't a very exciting life - though he has seen some things he never thought he would, including the King and Queen from mere feet away. Which was the highlight of his career and he doesn't mind admitting it.    
  
It wasn't easy. Not by a long shot. The snotty footmen and that terribly French chef (who was by no means better at cooking than Mrs Patmore). Not even speaking of that Page of the Backstairs. What a buffoon.   
  
The way he spoke to the staff was… and the way he spoke to Elsie! It was good Mr Bates protested, because Charles was just so stunned by it. Had nobody said anything, he might have done something regrettable.   
  
He doesn't see himself as a knight in shining armour and especially now that he is not the strong young man he used to be. All he wants is to be worthy of Elsie and she is not feeling her best. She does a fine job hiding it, but he knows. He knows her and it pains him that she feels she cannot confide in him.   
  
He kneels and swipes up the crumbs with the dustpan and brush. Like a scullery maid. It's a poignant reminder that he was once the highest ranking servant in a household and that he is now reduced to doing the task of the lowest. It teaches him something he already knew:   
  
Everybody has their part in the workings of a household. One should never feel too important to take someone's place. A man is never too grand to respect those he commands.   
  
In their cottage, they don't have much work to do. Elsie looks after their laundry (there had been a few moments of embarrassment from him, in the early days of their marriage, but Elsie had kissed him and told him there was nothing to be ashamed of) and she cooks for the pair of them, aided by Mrs Patmore. He does the breakfast dishes, he sweeps the floors and he tends to the garden.   
  
He loves to watch her go about the other tasks. Cleaning the windows for example, when she rolls up her sleeves. When she dunks the sponge in the water and drops run down the soft inside of her arms while she scours the glass and woodwork clean and her hair comes loose from her knot (it probably has a different, fancy name, but he is a Butler, not a lass, he doesn’t know what hairstyles are called.)    
  
Or when she takes the front room carpet and hangs it over the line in the yard and whacks it with the carpet beater. God knows he is not a young man, but when she wipes her brow with the back of her hand and she is looking slightly dishevelled and her cheeks are flushed, he wishes he was so he could sweep her off her feet and…   
  
He coughs.   
  
That's no way to think about his wife in the bright light of day.    
  
He recalls the difficult conversation he had with Mrs Patmore before Elsie would set a date. How supremely awkward it was to convey to a mutual friend he did think of Elsie as more than a friend and definitely not as a sister. Mrs Patmore never once referred to their conversation after the wedding, which he is very glad of.

* * *

"Mrs Hughes? Do you have a moment?" Mr Barrow is looking concerned in the bleary light that seeps through the windows after breakfast.   
  
"Of course, Mr Barrow. What can I do for you?"   
  
"It's about Andy, really."   
  
Elsie sighs. She knows what's coming.    
  
"He's given his notice?" she asks and Thomas sighs like a storm.   
  
"We always knew he wouldn't stay long, but apparently he wants to quit the day he and Daisy get married."   
  
Elsie is glad Andy gave notice to Thomas and not to Charles, she would never have heard the last of it.    
  
"That gives you… how many weeks? to find a replacement?" she asks.   
  
"Six. And I know that used to be plenty. Was once that we received over fifty applications after advertising. Now we have to be lucky if we get ten. I am worried, Mrs Hughes."   
  
Elsie bites her lip.   
  
"What about the hallboy?"   
  
"He is a bit young to wait at table," Thomas says and Elsie can tell he has considered taking on Albert* carefully. "If he were two or three years older, I wouldn't hesitate."   
  
"Did you tell him that?"   
  
Thomas looks at her, clearly not understanding what she means.   
  
"No. Why would I?"   
  
Elsie huffs. "Because if the lad knows he has prospects, he might consider staying on. Because there's every chance you'll be without a footman again well before those three years are over."   
  
"Why wouldn't Albert want to stay on? Why would he want to leave Downton?" Thomas asks and Elsie smiles at him.   
  
"You sound just like Mr Carson there."

* * *

* I don't remember the hallboy's name in the movie, so I named him Albert. Because… erm… why not.

  
  



	8. Day 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start of NaNo's infamous Hell Week: week 2. And petals, am I feeling it.  
Mrs Patmore has a request and Mr Carson tends to his sprouts.

**Day 8**

* * *

"Mrs Hughes?"   
  
Elsie can feel her shoulders sag with her sigh. It's uncanny how everybody seems to need her this morning - first Thomas whom she couldn't give anything in the way of comfort and she accidentally said the completely wrong thing.   
  
Still considering comparing Thomas to Charles and what that all means, she faces Mrs Patmore who is standing in the doorway to the kitchen.   
  
"Yes, Mrs Patmore?"   
  
"Do you have a moment?"   
  
"Of course. Why don't you step into my parlour?"   
  
The cook picks up a tea tray that's conveniently stood on the workbench. "I sort of expected you'd say 'yes'," she says when Elsie raises her eyebrows in surprise.   
  
The two women settle in Elsie's parlour - which doesn't look as grey and unfriendly in the light of day. Perhaps a bit cold. Mrs Patmore settles herself by the table and fusses with the teapot.   
  
"What can I do for you?" Elsie asks and she takes her teacup. It reminds her of that time Charlie tried to hide his shaking hand. She can see her own tremble a tiny little bit.    
  
"It's the wedding," Mrs Patmore says.   
  
"What about it?"    
  
"It's only six weeks away."   
  
"I know. Andy has given Mr Barrow his notice and let's say he isn't too best pleased about it." Elsie takes a sip of her tea and leans back as far as her corset allows.   
  
"Andy never pretended he was going to stay on forever," Mrs Patmore shrugs and takes a fairly big gulp of her own tea.   
  
"So. What is the problem with the wedding being six weeks away? I thought you and Daisy had everything well in hand?" Elsie says and she takes a shortbread finger from the plate on the tray.   
  
"Oh, we have. If you mean the dress and the food and as you know the banns have been read and all of that. Yes. Well in hand. Daisy is very organised, really."   
  
"Then what's wrong?"   
  
Mrs Patmore looks at Elsie with imploring eyes and Elsie cannot for the life of her think what might be the matter. Her friend takes another big gulp of tea and together they sit in silence for a while.   
  
"Beryl?"   
  
"I have a favour to ask," Beryl answers and then presses on with the confidence that apparently was found at the bottom of her teacup.   
  
"I need you to talk to Daisy about… you know…" Mrs Patmore lowers her voice to a loud, breathy whisper: "Marital relations."

  
There must be a word that captures the essence of what goes around, comes around, but she doesn't know of any. Elsie had asked her friend to run interference on her behalf when it came to finding an answer to a fairly similar question.    
  
"Why do you want me to talk to Daisy? Wouldn't Anna be a much better person to ask? I mean…"   
  
Two thoughts fight for dominance in Elsie's mind. One: that Anna is still a young woman, much closer in age to Daisy and that would make such a talk much less awkward and two: that Anna has actually been pregnant and that she has given life.   
  
"I wouldn't know how to ask Anna and I don't think Daisy would appreciate it if it turns out I asked everyone on staff."   
  
"So you've asked Mr Molesley first?" Elsie quips in an effort to lighten the mood.    
  
It works. Mrs Patmore laughs out loud, with as much relief as the idea of actually asking Mr Molesley the same daunting question.   
  
"Can you imagine?" Beryl asks, still laughing, wiping the tears from her eyes.   
  
"No. But you can imagine me talking to Daisy about… you know? Besides, why would you assume she isn't aware? These are modern times, Mrs Patmore."   
  
Very feeble. Even to her own ears. But she just can't do it.    
  
Elsie has a husband and he loves her and sometimes he reaches for her and it is lovely and intimate in so many different ways. But it could never be what it is for young people.   
  
"The times here in Downton are not that modern, Mrs Hughes."   
  
Another cup of tea is poured and Elsie uses it to fortify herself and suddenly, as she looks up from the cup and saucer, her eye falls on the small shelf of books and on it is that one, small volume that could be the answer to this predicament.   
  
"You could give her this!" Elsie exclaims and she puts down her tea and jumps up from the chair, turning this way and that and picks the book from the shelf.   
  
She once confiscated it from Edna Braithwaite and she has hidden it between her other books ever since, not quite knowing what to do with it.    
  
" _ Married love _ ?" Mrs Patmore reads aloud.   
  
"It's very informative," Elsie recommends.   
  
"Would it tell her anything different from what you would?" Mrs Patmore asks and Elsie pulls up a shoulder in an attempt to convey that she has no idea.   
  
"It's a bit impersonal, isn't it." It's not even a question. It's a statement and brought with more than a little irritation present in the cook's voice.    
  
But Beryl Patmore was not prepared for the abrupt outburst from her friend, the reserved and restrained Housekeeper of Downton Abbey, that followed.

* * *

Charles Carson tends to his vegetable patch in the grey weather and pretends he doesn't feel the fine drizzle fall down on his forearms. He can't bare to stay inside the cottage for much longer: he has finished both his library books and the newspaper and there are no chores for him to do.   
  
He has thought about maybe repainting the spare bedroom, but every time he wants to talk to Elsie to get her opinion, she changes the subject. She does the same when he brings up their house on Brouncker Road.    
  
After all: they don't need it anymore and he honestly can't see himself bothering much with it now they are so comfortable in what Elsie has tried to make a home.    
  
It's funny - no, not funny. Odd? Well, yes, but Charles Carson doesn't think his wife is odd. Interesting then, maybe that sums up the way Elsie never calls the cottage 'home' even though she comes back to it every evening. She doesn't call Downton 'home' either: not the house and not the village.    
  
He does say it: both the house and their cottage are home to him and he doesn't understand why it isn't for his wife. This isn't an irregularity: there are a number of things he doesn't understand about his wife.    
  
The way she doesn't reach for him in the night, though she never seems to be opposed to it when he reaches for her.    
  
Her sad eyes when she receives a catalogue in the post. Her inability to confide in him: has he not proven himself worthy of holding her secrets. And if she cannot share her secrets, can't he hold her at least?   
  
He knows he is a very lucky man: his wife looks after him tiptop. She brings back delicious dinners from the house and reheats them expertly. His shirts return impeccably starched and ironed from the laundry. Elsie makes his bed exactly the way he likes it. She kisses him before she leaves in the morning and she greets him with another one when she comes home.   
  
He doesn't doubt that she loves him.    
  
But lately it feels as if there is something between them that prevents both of them from truly reaching the other. A veil made of threads as thin as a spider's web is sticking to the pair of them, keeping them together, but keeping them apart.   
  
Charles bends over and pulls up more beetroot. He is lonely and he can tell that Elsie is, too. Neither of them have many friends. There is Beryl Patmore who is almost like a sister to him and plainspoken enough to tell him exactly how she feels without holding back. She is a friend to both Charles and Elsie and of course Charles goes out for a swift half in the Grantham Arms* sometimes, meeting up with Mr Mason and being agonisingly slowly accepted in the midst of the men who occupy the corner table.   
  
Sometimes he sees Mr Bates in the village and they have a pleasant few minutes as they walk the same way. He never forgets to ask about little Johnny Bates who is a sturdy looking little lad with the blonde hair of his mother and the quiet strength of his father.    
  
Charles checks the stalks of the sprouts and decides it's not quite time to harvest them.   
  
He smiles a bit. He had never thought he would be standing up to his ankles in the dirt to tend to cauliflower and carrots. He thought he would always roam the halls of Downton Abbey and Elsie changed that. He could see the pair of them being happy together. He could see himself loving her, doting on her a little.    
  
But he has found that he isn't equipped for the loneliness that has set upon him like a tiger on a buck.   
  
He straightens up slowly, pressing a fist against his lower back. When he is almost fully upright, a quaint thought hits him, a thought that makes no sense and one he knows he cannot share with his wife.    
  
He pushes his shovel into the soil with an angry movement, upset that he has made himself think of something he had promised himself to put behind him. He pulls his feet free from the dirt and steps out of the patch. He pats himself down and goes into the shed, noisily tidying his tools away.   
  
When he returns to the house, he takes off his wellington boots and goes through to the kitchen in his stockinged feet, putting the kettle on. He is glad Elsie isn't home. She would ask him what's wrong within two seconds of seeing him.   
  
And he can't just tell her. She would shake her head at him and open her arms and hands in a way that cannot be mistaken for anything but annoyance.    
  
Or worse.   
  
A reaction that is best not dwelled upon, because Charles Carson is a strong man and a good man, but he is also a man who cannot bear to make his wife cry.

* * *

* Not that one

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the story 'The Grantham Arms' on FFN, written by 'kouw' (who is me) - it's an AU about a Butler and a Madam, with plenty of feels and some smutty deliberations


	9. Day 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 and we are getting into the thick of it and not everybody is going to like it. Because this is where the 'conflict' really starts, but I can promise you that they will get past some of it very soon (it might even be tomorrow).  
Anyway. Mrs Hughes has her outburst, Mr Carson drinks something that isn't tea and they are being a little depressing, but like I said: they'll be fine  
Warning: over-indulgence of the alcoholic variety - no violence occurs

**Day 9**

* * *

Some outbursts are so quiet, you have to lean in to notice them. Elsie's voice is so soft, Beryl can only just make out the words as they come falling from Elsie's lips.   
  
"Daisy shouldn't hear those things from me, Beryl. The slot A, tab B - I would make it sound  _ technical _ . I don't want her to think that it's a hollow aching after your husband has found completion. That it is trying to teach him how to touch you late at night after you've come home dog-tired and cold to the bone. Daisy needs to know that it is more than lying in a wet spot, staring at the ceiling for hours."    
  
Elsie swallows hard, fighting the burning in her throat, ignoring the soft gasp of her friend. "I cannot tell her how it is. How it can be. Because if it is good, it is so wonderful and it is anything you could have dreamed of, but it often isn't. And for her… it still  _ matters _ . Don't you see?"   
  
She doesn't dare to look up.    
  
A tear drops on the skirt of her dress, darkening the already dark fabric. She is wearing one of the same three dresses she has been wearing for the past few years. The hem of her right sleeve is fraying at the wrist where it touches the table when she writes. She runs her fingers over it, the soft threads soothing her, but only a little.   
  
A small hand lands on her thigh.   
  
"Does it not matter for you?"   
  
Beryl's voice sounds surprisingly loud in the parlour. Elsie pulls up her shoulders and lets them drop. "Not the way it does for Daisy."   
  
"Why do you feel it is so different?" Elsie commends Beryl for her composure.    
  
"Because Andy will reach for Daisy and they will learn together and in time they will come to have hope for something that Mr Carson and I never will have. There will be a kind of happiness for them in it that it could never be for us and I knew that and I have made my peace with it long ago," Elsie keeps talking but Beryl cuts her off:   
  
"Doesn't sound like it. You don't sound like the Elsie Hughes I've known for decades. Who isn't afraid to ask for perfection and who will show you how to get it."   
  
Elsie blushes fiercely at the last words spoken by her friend.   
  
"If you have made your peace with things, if you truly have, there can't be any harm in sitting down that big butler of yours and telling him how you feel. You never had any issues doing that until the moment you started planning your wedding. I don't know what's come over you."   
  
Elsie isn't used to such plain speaking. It's comforting in a way and it changes the whole atmosphere.   
  
"What about Daisy?" Elsie asks.   
  
"You'll just call her into your parlour, sit her down, tell her about the whole gut A, wrench B or whatever you just called it and you answer her questions."

"Why don't you do it yourself? You are capable enough."    
  
God, but it feels good to feel a bit of fight again. A bit of bite. To be sparring without having to mince your words. To be the person you truly are when you feel safe and in the right place at the right time.   
  
"Because, Elsie Carson…"   
  
"Because , what, not-yet Beryl Mason?"   
  
Bright red blushes spike high on the Cook's cheekbones and oh, Elsie knows her friend isn't best pleased as the cook's eyes are shooting daggers and she stands up from her chair, pushing it back before saying:   
  
"Because you  _ owe _ me this."

* * *

He stares into his brandy. He has poured himself one the size of a builder's tea mug and it's not even lunchtime. Charles swirls the tea-coloured liquid around and grimaces at the thought of Elsie telling him the brandy is for medicinal purposes.   
  
He tries not to think about anything else. Puts all his efforts in trying to identify the notes in the liquor in his glass. He tries so hard, he almost doesn't hear the door to the cottage open and the very recognisable footfall of his wife.   
  
He can hear her putting down a basket and the shuffling of her taking off her coat and scarf and hanging them up. He hears the little sound she always makes when taking off her hat very clearly, but he doesn't look up from his drink.   
  
"Charlie?"   
  
Her voice is sounding more cheerful than it has in weeks and still he can't look up. He raises the glass and takes a sip. He grimaces. Brandy is an after-dinner drink, not a pre-lunch indulgence.    
  
Elsie's footsteps come closer and closer and he braces himself for her shouting at him in that quiet voice he knows she uses when she gets fed up.   
  
Which doesn't come.    
  
Instead she sits down next to him and lays her head against his shoulder.   
  
"Not a good day?" she asks. She runs her finger over the back of his trembling hand.   
  
"It was." He can hear how dejected he sounds.   
  
"What happened? Did you hurt yourself?" Her worry is evident, but he doesn't want her worry. He wants something else and that is why he has been in a mood ever since it came to him, standing between his sprouts and carrots.   
  
He shakes his head. She kisses his shoulder through his jumper. He barely feels it.    
  
"I've had a bit of a morning myself," she says and she bends over to untie her shoelaces*, "So I consulted with Lady Grantham and I am staying here the rest of the day."   
  
That little bit of information does make him look up. He is frowning even.   
  
"Why?"   
  
"Like I said: I've had a difficult morning." He watches her as she toes off her shoes and leans back a little before rolling her eyes and sitting up straight again.   
  
"Are you ill?"   
  
"No. Just tired, Mr Carson. I am so tired."   
  
Her words reverberate with him. He can see himself standing at the foot of the foot of the stairs, telling her that he wouldn't want her to get tired and she had given him that look of disbelief.   
  
"Do you need me to…"    
  
"Thank you, but no. Before anything else, I would like to know what kind of sorrows you are drowning in that gargantuan glass of brandy."   
  
"You don't want to know," he says and he puts down the glass on the table and gets up and walks away.

Her corset is digging in something awful, but she ignores it as best she can and follows her husband into the kitchen where she watches him open the drawers of the side cabinet and slams them closed again without taking anything out.   
  
He is so upset, it simply seems to hemorrhage from him. She stands close and puts her hand on his shoulder.   
  
"Tell me," she says. When he turns around, it isn't with the kind eyes she has come to expect from him. The searching eyes that are trying to find something that somehow got lost between them. No, there is a kind of misery in his eyes. A little bit of anger, too.   
  
She nods, fiercely. "Yes. I know. We should… we need to talk."   
  
He plonks down on a kitchen chair that responds with surprised creaking and Elsie settles down next to him.    
  
"I was told, today, by a mutual friend, that I don't seem like myself," she says, breaking the ice before Charles can be self-deprecating and blaming himself.   
  
"I know she is right. I don't really feel like myself. Do you feel like yourself?"   
  
He shakes his head slowly. "I used to be someone, you know," he says and she puts her hand over his trembling hand as it inadvertently raps upon the table.   
  
"I do. I fell in love with him. Not quickly. Not head over heels. Not the way you see in the flicks. But I did fall for that Butler."   
  
"You don't have to humour me," he says and Elsie's breath is shuddering from the way she tries not to sigh.   
  
"I thought you would never ask me to marry you and then you did. Over Christmas. A new beginning for the both of us, but we never talked about how it would be."   
  
"Mrs Patmore did," he remembers out loud.   
  
"Oh and don't I know it…" Elsie mumbles, thinking about the talk she is to have with Daisy soon.   
  
"Before we could set a date, I needed to know if you wanted to love me," she continues.   
  
"I still can't believe you didn't know how much I wanted our marriage to be everything it could possibly be."   
  
"That is not very difficult to believe, Mr Carson. What would a man want with an old maid who has nothing to offer? Not wealth, not grace, no great beauty, no…"    
  
"You are very very beautiful, Elsie," Charles interrupts and she picks up his hand and kisses the knuckles.   
  
"I couldn't give you a home of your own, and I cannot fill it... "   
  
A curious sound is sounding from Charles's mouth.   
  
"What is it?"   
  
She plunged in with her talk, not really giving his brandied up morning full consideration.   
  
"It's nothing. You will think me silly. Like you think the garden."   
  
"I do not think you silly, Mr Carson. Nor do I think your veg patch is silly - I worry about you working too hard and one day coming home to find you face down between the radishes and butter beans."   
  
She looks into his eyes.   
  
"And it is obviously not 'nothing' if it gives you such pain you try to drown it in brandy."   
  
"I'm lonely, Elsie," the words seem to break free from the depths of Charlie's body, his intonation giving the somewhat melodramatic words a twist that grip Elsie's heart.   
  
"I'm so lonely and I was pulling up beetroot and carrots and I got to thinking that other men my age have…" He pauses, wets his lips, looks away from her again: "Something I can never have. It's impossible. Not for the likes of me."

* * *

* stolen from the president

  
  



	10. Day 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly the worst day so far and I am sorry. Nano is hard. Writing is hard. At least Charles and Elsie come to the point. Well. Not really. But they are on their way.

"I'm lonely, too," she says. "Good god, I am so lonely, back there at the cottage in this endless silence. Lonely while roaming the Servants' Hall and never hearing your voice. I keep looking for you. I keep thinking I can hear your footsteps on the stairs."   
  
Turns out it is a day for revelations. Of learning things about herself she didn't consciously know before, but that apparently come to her as she speaks up, so she keeps talking:    
  
"I miss being able to talk to you the way we did before."   
  
"Before?" He doesn't understand.   
  
"Before you asked me. Before everything changed."    
  
She can feel him tense beside her.   
  
"You think it was a mistake? Marrying me?"   
  
"No."    
  
She doesn't think it was a mistake at all. She loves him and she wants to be with him and share their lives together. What she doesn't want is for them to float on their separate rafts, never getting closer than the touch of fingertips.   
  
"But?" The injury in his voice makes her shake, but she can't back down. Didn't Beryl tell her that she used to never back down?   
  
"We should have talked more. About what we expected from our marriage and living together or what we hoped for in our suddenly shared lives."   
  
"I think I was very clear in what I wanted," he huffs and he looks like a cat, back rounded, ready to pounce.   
  
"Were you? Because I don't think we were. I don't think we even once discussed the matter that poor Mrs Patmore was enlisted to find out for us."   
  
He doesn't respond and Elsie presses on. "We didn't talk about what we would do if anything happened to us, like an injury or illness. You did your calculations and I did mine and we thought that money alone was enough of a safety net to see us through."   
  
"What else would you have wanted to talk about? Retirement is only possible if one can afford it," he says and Elsie wets her lip before looking away and back at him again.   
  
"The money is important, I'm not contesting that. But you were forced to leave service. You weren't ready, you know that; it was thrust upon you and because of that it was also thrust upon me. While you will forever be known as the greatest butler that ever graced the halls of Downton Abbey. When I retire, I will be reduced to your wife."   
  
"You are my wife."   
  
"I am not just your wife, Mr Carson," Elsie tries to hide the slashing pain she feels at his plain assessment.   
  
"I have been somebody's daughter and sister. I was a farmgirl once and I was a housemaid for many years. I am the  _ Housekeeper of Downton Abbey _ and have been since the start of the century. I have taught countless girls how to polish brass they would never be able to afford; how to fluff pillows that wouldn't lie on their own sofas. " She barely breathes before continuing: "I have made so many beds that I still can't believe you thought my corners weren't tight enough - which, for your information, was entirely because you thought there would be enough time to show me your affection before leaving for work."   
  
She is practically wheezing with it all.   
  
"I… I like…" he starts and falters.   
  
"You like things done perfectly. I know that. I have always known that because before I was your wife, we were the two people making absolutely certain that everything was well above up to scratch in that house that you called home."   
  
Elsie pauses briefly. "We stood together then, side by side. You and me. Like Lord and Lady Grantham and we complemented one another perfectly. We needed so few words to know exactly what we meant. We watched them all, maids, footmen, hallboys, nurtured where we could, disciplined when we needed to and it was…" She trails off, thinking of the right thing to say.   
  
"It was good."   
  
She affirms: "It was good, Charles. Today Mr Barrow told me Andrew gave him his resignation and his reaction was made up of all the things I remember from you. I told him that he is so much like you…" Elsie takes a big gulp of the brandy. Charles takes the glass from her and follows her example and then he speaks forlornly:   
  
"When I found out it was Anna, and not you, who thought up the charade, sending the royal staff to London where they were not needed, all I could think of was when you told me that a woman always needs to learn how to plot and it's not really left my mind since."   
  
He drains the glass in one and Elsie has never seen him indulge like that. Not only the quick polishing off of a glass, but him picking up the bottle from under the sofa and pouring again.   
  
"What has gotten you so upset?" Elsie asks, genuinely worried for her husband, who she knows can hold a drink, but who rarely needs to be able to.   
  
"I told you: you wouldn't understand."    
  
"Why are you so afraid I won't be able to grasp it?"   
  
He looks up sharply. "I have never doubted your intellect."    
  
"What about it makes you doubt me, then?"   
  
"I don't doubt you." He drains the glass of brandy again.   
  
"Give me that brandy," Elsie demands and she puts the stopper back on the bottle and puts it out of sight.

She slides closer to her husband and presses her leg against his. "You said that you are lonely because you'll never have something other men your age do have," she gently coaxes.   
  
"Please don't, Elsie," he implores. "Don't."   
  
"You can make new friends," she softly says. "If you want."   
  
He doesn't answer but kisses her hair.   
  
Elsie continues: "Maybe that will help make the cottage more of a home: if we had friends visiting sometimes."

She doesn’t think he listens. 

The brandy is going to her head. "Charles?"   
  
"Yes?" He is a little bleary-eyed. He has had so much more than she has and on an empty stomach, too.    
  
"Do you really not expect anything from me?"   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"In bed." It's the drink talking. Elsie Hughes may be unafraid, she is not a terribly modern woman, when it comes to this particular part of married life.   
  
"Oh."   
  
"Yes. You don't wish for anything?"   
  
"I am happy with anything you allow me," he says and she can hear him slurring a little bit.   
  
"But," she tries and fails.   
  
"But what?"   
  
"Nevermind."   
  
She does what he did. Cutting off when the going gets tough. When being frank becomes too difficult. She doesn't know how to say what she needs, doesn't have the actual words - the euphemisms people probably use when speaking of things this intimate. Beryl thinking Elsie can be of any help to Daisy is laughable.   
  
Charles rubs his hands over his face. "I've had too much to drink," he says and she agrees. They both have.   
  
"I think I'll lie down for an hour or so."   
  
He gets up slowly, and staggers a little bit on his way to the hall.   
  
"Be careful on the stairs," she calls to him and he lifts his hand behind him to signal he has heard her. She holds her breath as he takes it one step at a time. Only when she hears the tap run, does she breathe out again.   
  
She is worried about Charles and she is worried that the sense of connection she felt just now is based on their shared alcohol intake. With a heavy heart, she takes the bottle of brandy and brings it back to the cupboard in the corner of the room. Upstairs she can hear Charles moving from room to room. The bathroom door closes twice. The door to their bedroom opens and closes almost immediately. The door to the other room opens and she can hear him go in.   
  
She doesn't understand why he is so preoccupied with that room.    
  
She closes the cupboard and from where she stands she spots Charles's wellies on the doormat, covered in mud. Once she standing next to them, she reaches out to pick them up, but her head starts swimming. God, how much brandy has she had? She steadies herself against the wall with one hand and runs another over the front of her dress.   
  
It ripples under her fingers. Would it feel the same if Charles were to touch her dress in that way? The idea makes her a little flustered. Feeling unable to put her feet firmly on the ground, she decides against taking Charlie's wellies back to the shed.    
  
It is still raining anyway.    
  
Charles has the right idea. Lying down is a lot safer than feeling like you did, once, when you were a wain and you got off the carousel at the fair. So she grips the banister tightly and follows her husband's path.   
  
When she comes to the top of the stairs, she sees him standing in the doorway of the empty second bedroom.   
  
"I thought I'd join you," she says and he slowly turns around.   
  
"Join me?"   
  
"You said you were going to lie down."   
  
Elsie rubs her forehead.   
  
"Yes. Yes, I was." He says absentmindedly and goes past her and into their bedroom. Elsie follows him, careful not to bump into him or to take an unfortunate tumble. She sees him wavering by the bed and she rushes to him, taking his hand.   
  
He looks down on it and he gives her a sad smile.   
  
"Elsie. Always here to make me feel steady," he says.   
  
He must be a little drunk, really, because he pulls her to him and holds her. His right hand is quavering against her lower back. She can feel it through the layers she wears - remnants of an era gone by, in which being housekeeper to the Earl and Countess of Grantham meant something. Her hand is still in his left and he smells of drink and sorrow.

“I’ll always hold your hand,” she whispers. 

“But will you always hold me in your heart?” He asks. 

She doesn't need time to think of an answer: “Yes. Yes,I think I will.” 

She contemplates his question further. “Before I was your wife, I was your second in command and together there was nothing we couldn’t do.”

“Everything except happily ever after.”

He squeezes her hand and she squeezes back. He doesn’t let her go and she doesn’t think he means it. The brandy is talking and it is good to get it out into the open. In the safety of their bedroom. 

Elsie raises herself up onto her toes and still can barely reach his cheek, but she kisses it and she says: 

“We just need to learn how to talk."    
  
Is it the brandy or is it him? There's suddenly a courage in her and she follows through: "We never needed to before. You once told me that you didn't understand me and I said that I knew and in that moment I think maybe I thought you would never truly understand me and instead of making you, I just kept quiet. But that doesn't work in a marriage. We need to make each other  _ see _ ."

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



	11. Day 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo - day 11. Or day 4 in Hell Week. Either/or. But at least these two are talking. Yes: talking. Opening up a little. Letting go of a few things they have held onto a little too tightly.

**Day 11**

* * *

"You think me oblivious," Charles says, the words stretching oddly from the brandy he drank. "But I know things haven't been as you wished for. Remember stepping out of church and everybody was cheering and I kissed you? I thought that finally, I could be truly happy."  
  
Elsie rubs her forehead against Charles's shoulder. "I'm sorry you aren't."  
  
"I am sorry you aren't either."  
  
It's not entirely true. The happy moments outshine the miserable ones. They belong together, Elsie knows this and she couldn't imagine her life without her husband in it. They have shared a life together in service and they wielded a bond that can't be broken easily. Less than two years of marriage is nothing compared to the decades they ruled the Servants' Hall together.  
  
"I'm not unhappy," she tries to explain. "I just think we could have more."  
  
"More?"  
  
"Not brandy," she sets him straight and she can feel him smiling.  
  
"No. Not right now. I've had my fill, I think." He nuzzles her hair and his breath is warm against her scalp.  
  
"You should lie down," Elsie agrees and she steps out of his embrace. The air in the bedroom is cold, almost damp. It always feels as if the rain outside seeps into the rooms in the autumn. The wind makes the wet leaves left on the branches of the trees surrounding the cottage sound like waves crashing upon the beach.  
  
"Will you stay?" he asks.  
  
Elsie smiles softly. "Yes."  
  
Only then he sits down on the edge of the bed and Elsie stands in front of him and she tells him, as clearly as she can:  
  
"I will stay."

* * *

His hair is soft and Elsie delights in carding her fingers through it. The pommade he used to slick it back is in the bathroom and the last time she has seen his hair greased into place was when the Royal visit descended upon them. Charles combed his wavy hair back in much the same style as Mr Barrow wears it.  
  
She hasn't said anything about it, but it is something that plays in her mind a lot.  
  
"Elsie?"  
  
"Yes, Charlie?"  
  
"Why did you come home early?"  
  
"I had a headache," she says.  
  
"A headache?"  
  
"Hmm." She caresses the soft skin of his temple with the side of her thumb.  
  
"What gave you a headache that was so bad you had to come home?"  
  
Elsie laughs a little. "I'll give you three guesses and the first doesn't count."  
  
"Mr Barrow," Charles says sagely and that makes Elsie laugh again.  
  
"Well, you may try again," she says and kisses his brow.  
  
"Mrs Patmore."  
  
"Mrs Patmore, I would almost say 'who else'." Elsie lets go of Charles and sits down next to him.  
  
"What happened with Mrs Patmore that gave you a headache? I can't imagine it was a fight over the store cupboard key."  
  
Elsie shakes her head. It's been so long since she had an actual fight with Mrs Patmore and she doesn't miss it. "No, not that. It was something about Daisy's wedding."  
  
"I thought the preparations for the wedding were all well in hand? Mr Mason hasn't said anything to the contrary, at least."  
  
Elsie leans against Charles, who almost falls over as he is still affected by the brandy. She deftly sits up again and pulls her husband against her and she wraps both arms around his upper arm.  
  
"The wedding is going to be splendid," she says warmly. She can imagine Daisy and Andy in church and at the reception afterwards. She has already seen the dress when Miss Baxter had Daisy fit it for alterations and Mrs Patmore and Elsie stood in the room, with tears in their eyes and Anna offered to help with Daisy's hair. It will be nice to go to a wedding without having to worry about any of the preparations.  
  
"Then what does Mrs Patmore want from you?" Charles asks and he pulls himself free from Elsie's grip and drops himself on the covers.  
  
Elsie lies down next to him and props herself up on her elbow. "Mrs Patmore wants me to talk to Daisy."  
  
"What does she want you to talk to Daisy about?"  
  
It's a reasonable enough question.  
  
"Marriage."

Elsie's hand lies flat on Charles's chest.  
  
"Does that mean what I think it does?" He has his eyes closed and places his hand on top of Elsie's to stop her fiddling with one of the buttons on his shirt.  
  
"That depends. What do you think it means?" Her mouth is a little dry. She can't tell if it is from the alcohol consumed or the sudden nerves that sweep over her.  
  
"The thing you asked Mrs Patmore to ask me."  
  
He carefully raises his arm so she can rest her head on his chest.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Which gave you a headache?" He sounds a little incredulous.  
  
"That it did."  
  
"Why? Does it have anything to do with… with what you said earlier? Something about not talking to each other after Mrs Patmore asked me if I wanted to have a full marriage?"  
  
"Yes… She wants me to talk to Daisy about… erm… what she can expect. I think."  
  
"You think?"  
  
"We didn't discuss it very much. She asked me and I tried to decline and she kept pushing. You know what she is like."  
  
Are half-lies the same as half-truths? Elsie hopes so. She wants to be honest with Charles, but she doesn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him that she confided in a friend instead of him.  
  
Which she should have done in the first place.  
  
"I know she can be very loud," Charles says and it is such a off-beat answer, she cannot help but laugh.  
  
"You're such a curmudgeon," she says, trying to catch her breath.  
  


Her curmudgeon who is here, with her and he makes her feel safe and being in his arms makes her feel as if she belongs there.  
  
"We didn't talk about what we could expect, did we," Charles mumbles.  
  
"No."  
  
"Is it what you thought it would be?" he asks and Elsie is surprised by his candour.  
  
"I didn't have an idea of what I could expect. I mean, not really. Not beyond… you know."  
  
"Beyond duty?"

"I don't hate it," she says and she means it. Sometimes, when he moves in a certain way, it can be really nice.  
  
Charles removes his arm from under her and sits up with a jerk. She almost falls back from his uncontrolled movements.  
  
"What do you mean 'you don't hate it'?" He sounds shocked and agitated.  
  
Elsie sits up too, bothered by her corset and the hazy state of her brain.  
  
"I mean that I don't mind it," she tries to explain but it only furthers Charles discomposure.  
  
"I don't understand," he says, his voice thick with booze and hurt.  
  
"When you reach for me, in the dark and you do what it is that you do."  
  
"Do what I do?"  
  
If only she had the words. If she dared speak them. Elsie bites down on her lip, much harder than intended.  
  
"I don't know if it can be better - I don't know what I am doing wrong - but sometimes I feel - I mean I think - that it isn't what…" she stammers and stutters and feels as ridiculous as she feared she would.  
  
"I doubt you are doing anything _ wrong _ ," Charles hesitates and it is a consolation he hasn't stormed off, like she thought he was going to when he sat so boldly upright he almost bowled her over.  
  
"Then why isn't it... "  
  
Why isn't it shattering the stars in the heavens? Why isn't it angels singing and all her wrinkles faded? Why isn't it the miraculous thing she was promised it would be?  
  
"I'm sorry," she adds. "I just don't know how… I don't know why Beryl thinks I can be of any help to Daisy."  
  
"Do you think it will be different for them?"  
  
"I think so, yes." Like she told Beryl.  
  
She gets up from the bed, too and starts towards her husband.  
  
"Because they are young?" Charles asks and Elsie nods slowly.  
  
"Yes. Because they are young and because they can be unafraid together. They won't be scared to show themselves in the light."  
  
His hand is around her wrist then and he spins her so she can look him in the eye and it was easier when he didn't look at her but there is something in his face that takes her breath away.  
  
"Are you fearful of showing yourself to me?" he asks and his voice is a little hoarse and Elsie blames the brandy, but it isn't that. It's something else and she can't tell what.  
  
She doesn't answer, just swallows and stares into his eyes.  
  
"Elsie, is that why you never leave on the light once you get into bed with me?"  
  
She drags her eyes from his, facing away towards the mirror, seeing them reflected in it and it is a picture she sometimes fantasises about. Charles in his tweeds, looking mussed and still a little fuddled and she is in such a state of disarray: her hair is falling from her bun and her dress has ridden up.  
  
"It's not something people do when it's daylight, is it…" she says softly and Charles gently places his finger under her chin and coaxes her to look at him again.  
  
"Who told you that?"  
  
"Nobody told me, but it… it's not proper, Charles, it isn't for old fuddy duddies like us."  
  
"Isn't it?" He sounds surprised, as if she has given him brand new information he never considered before.  
  
"You know it isn't, Charles. It's something young people do. It would be an… an indulgence for us."  
  
"To love my wife? To show her my affection?"  
  
He leans in and crushes her lips in a searing kiss. One that Elsie never experienced before and she sags against him, molding to his shape. When he lets go, she is panting.  
  
"Goodness," she breathes. "That was…"  
  
"It's not just for young people, Elspeth." He kisses her again.  
  
"There's no need to worry. I know you are beautiful," he continues and with one steady and one trembling hand he starts unhooking her dress.

  
  



	12. Day 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 and it is very obvious I haven't written smut in a long time… sorry guys, this will improve in editing as the following is still pretty much totally safe to read at work.

**Day 12**

* * *

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to look at you,” he says and he doesn’t seem to be very tipsy anymore. 

“Look at me?” 

“Yes. In the light.”  
  
Elsie pauses before making up her mind.   
  
"If you're sure."   
  
They stand next to the bed and the curtains are open and the rain is still lashing merrily against the glass. There's not a soul out there and the light and the bedroom is shrouded in a muted grey glow. The bed is looking terribly untidy; the blanket and sheets are crumpled and wrinkled where they sat.   
  
Elsie is feeling closer to Charles than she has in the past few weeks. She is pleased he thinks he might want to see her as she is. He is right: she never leaves the light on. To be seen as she is, it's intimidating. She isn't like Lady Grantham, who is elegant and who no doubt wears the most beautiful, Parisien lingerie. She'll be in the same underclothes she has been wearing for years. Her corset cover and slip are both from just after the war.   
  
Her corset must seem like a relic to Charles.   
  
It is, in a way. Nobody wears them anymore, except Elsie and…   
  
Nobody else.   
  
Better not dwell on it, not now, not when her husband is leaning in to kiss her and who is holding her both firmly and tenderly.   
  
She didn't know that were possible. That you can be daunted and excited at the same time. She didn't know that a fingertip trailing down her neck could give her shivers that aren't from the cold. That undressing can be more than just functional.   
  
"I am sure."   
  
Elsie trembles when she starts pulling her arms from the sleeves of her dress.   
  
"Let me help you."   
  
Elsie licks her lip, presses them together. Tries to slow her heartbeat. Charles is looking at her shoulder as it bares before him. He kisses the freckles, almost one by one.   
  
He kisses the unsightly scar where she was once pricked with a bifurcated needle. One she knows he will sport as well. Left arm or right, it depended mostly on where your mam could pull down your sleeve long enough for the doctor to get the procedure done.   
  
Soon she will be able to kiss his scar, too.   
  
Her arm is bare before him and he kisses the inside of her wrist, the palm of her hand.   
  
"Your skin is so soft," he says and Elsie blushes. Maybe he could have known that from the times they did this in the dark, but maybe he doesn't mean that kind of soft. She was surprised with the softness of Charles's forearms, too, when she saw them for the first time. Peeping out from his rolled up shirt sleeves.   
  
She quickly shrugs out of the other sleeve and the bodice of her dress falls forward.   
  
Charles's fingers are warm on her clavicle, his lips are even warmer and Elsie holds on to him, her hands trying to grab hold of him. His spencer stretches and doesn't help her remain upright. She starts to lose her balance, but he steadies her and it is unexpected and delightful.   
  
The wide straps of her serviceable white cotton corset cover almost seem to shine in the muted light. He kisses a path from her shoulder to her neck, putting a finger under the strap and sliding it out of the way.

A low sound escapes her and they are both startled by it and the look in Charles’s eyes is nothing Elsie has ever seen before. 

He undoes the final hook and eye and her dress falls to the floor, making it look as if she is standing in black and white waves. She shivers when Charles’s hand travels from her shoulder, over her back, to cup her bum. He pulls her close and kisses her again. 

“So this is what you are under your dress,” he says. 

“All white… like a bride…” He swallows hard and he touches one of the many buttons on the corset cover. Elsie knows he won’t be able to undo those buttons. They are too small, the button holes too tight - some were like that when she bought it, others have been repaired. 

Without looking at him, Elsie starts unbuttoning the corset cover and Charles turns her so she is facing the bed and he sits down, maybe a remnant of that godawful amount of brandy is still coursing through his veins, because it isn’t a composed sitting down at all, but Elsie has other matters to attend to. 

One by one the buttons go and Elsie reveals the next layer that make up a Housekeeper. She pulls the ribbon that keeps the skirt of her slip neatly in place. The way it is attached makes it look like she is wearing a dress under a dress. 

The sharp intake of breath makes Elsie a little weak in the knees. That sound is not one a husband makes when he is disgusted by his wife. 

No. 

She can tell it is quite the opposite, because when she looks up from her labours, he has taken off his spencer and he has undone his tie and a few buttons on his shirt. 

There’s a stark contrast between the colour of his skin on his neck and on his chest. There’s the chest hair she has often felt but has never seen before. It’s very silvery, almost white.   
  
She finishes unbuttoning the corset cover and slip and she slowly removes them.   
  
"I had no idea…" he mumbles.   
  
"About what?"   
  
"What goes into a ladies' accoutrements."   
  
"I'm no lady, Mr Carson."   
  
"You are to me."   
  
He reaches out and she lets him take her hand. He softly kisses the back of her hand and he pulls her a little closer. He lifts his free hand and touches the herringbone coutil of her corset.   
  
"I thought this would be softer," he says. "It can't be very comfortable."   
  
"You get used to it," she answers. When a corset fits well, and you don't put too much pressure on it, it is just something you deal with. She has been wearing them since she started in service, about fifty years ago. There have been times her corsets were put under more strain - when she went from her first position to her second and she had fewer miles to walk and three good, filling, square meals a day. 

"It looks complicated." He is looking mostly at the top of the corset, where he can see the promise of her breasts as they are being held tightly by cloth and thread.  
  
Elsie laughs. "It isn't complicated. I have seen you put that wine decanting contraption together; this is much simpler."   
  
"Will you show me?" He tries to untie the knot of lacings on her side and she waits patiently for him to get it unravelled. She'll fasten it again later - it's not important.   
  
"Put your hands here," she says, her voice soft* but steady.   
  
His hands are at her sides and she puts her own over them. Together they press the busk together and Charles watches intently as it comes undone. They pull it apart and Elsie breathes in deeply for the first time since she got dressed. Her chemise smoothes out as it's being released from being scrunched up.   
  
"There's more?" He sounds so surprised, Elsie can't help laughing again.   
  
"Nearly there, Mr Carson. Patience… good things come to those who wait."   
  
She doesn't know where that flirtatious teasing comes from, why she is suddenly so confident. Is it Charles's quickened breathing? The way he looks at her? Because he has looked at her with kind eyes and with love in his gaze, but never, never, has she seen him stare at her the way he is now.   
  
"I want to… May I kiss you?" he asks and Elsie is overwhelmed by his care and she raises herself up on her toes and kisses him in a response.   
  
His lips are supple against hers and he kisses her deeply, pulling her so closely against him and she can feel him shrugging out of his shirt, but she doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't want this kiss to end. To finally - finally - feel his warmth after having been cooped up in her dress. She can feel the heat of his hands on her lower back. His chest is against hers and there are only her chemise, only his vest between them.   
  
Well-worn and well-washed layers of ivory coloured cotton. Bought in days before their marriage. Before either of them could have expected their undergarments could be seen by someone else between themselves and a laundry maid.   
  
She loves the feeling of muscle under softness in his upper arms as she slides her hands up them and wraps them around his neck.   
  
He staggers a bit, not prepared for the sudden shift in wait and they bump against the side of the bed and Charles catches her, just in time. She lands in his lap. His tweed trousers are rough and prickly against the bare skin between her stockings and her underwear**.   
  
It's not unpleasant.   
  
Charles's kiss moves from her lips to her cheek, down her jaw and down her neck and Elsie cannot help but wiggle.   
  
"That's a step above _ risque _ , Mrs Hughes…" Charles says.   
  
"Is it?"   
  
"Hmm hmm."   
  
Elsie wiggles again. Charles doesn't say anything to that, but his hand, that was safely lying on her hip travels up and cups her breast instead and Elsie almost jumps.   
  
Charles lets go of her immediately. "I didn't mean to alarm you."   
  
Elsie kisses his again and takes his hand and places it back upon her breast, her chemise still a barrier.

* * *

* I wanted to write 'like summer rain' but that would be Jolene and besides, it's not summer in this fic  
** I need to figure out what the right word is for the style of underwear Elsie has on here, but I don't have the time

  
  



	13. Day 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is day 13 of NaNo 2019 - we didn't even get to the 'good' stuff yesterday… sorry. But that doesn't mean I won't keep trying! So this might qualify as NSFW. Maybe. Theoretically. There's a lot of talk about freckles, so you can make up your own mind. But I have faith all of you can read a piece of M-rated fanfiction without even raising an eyebrow.

**Day 13 **

* * *

Freckles. On the delicate skin covering her clavicle. On her shoulders. Covering the swell of her breasts. She is still wearing a very thin garment he doesn't know the name of. She is beautiful. Her cheeks are glowing, her lips are red and swollen. Her eyes glitter.    
  
The room is cold and she is responding to it with goosebumps all over her arms and he has to restrain himself from tearing that white thing off her. Her stockings end much lower on her leg than he expected them to. She must have unclipped them from the garters attached to her corset, because nothing but shere willpower is keeping them up. They're so very black against the pale skin of her thighs - what part he can see of them. She is wearing the underwear he recognises.   
  
He coughs a little.   
  
He had imagined what her legs would look like, even before the wedding. So far he has only touched them and not in the way he dreamed of.    
  
She smells the same as she always does and that gives him a little more grip on himself and on the situation he finds himself in:   
  
His wife, in the final layer of her clothing, wriggling in his lap, making him feel as if he is twenty years old again. But he isn't a carefree lad and though the brandy has settled and his brain doesn't feel as foggy, there is a last frisson of the melancholy mood he has been in since breakfast.   
  
Elsie wriggles again when he kisses her neck and he says the first thing that comes into his head:   
  
"That's a step above  _ risque _ , Mrs Hughes…"   
  
"Is it?"    
  
Her voice is all honey and gold and he can't say anything but bites back a moan. "Hmm hmm."   
  
And damned if she doesn't wriggle again, absolutely, wholeheartedly, intentionally and he is not one to take advantage, but he thinks he can risk it, wants to - has wanted to since he saw the beauty of her bosom restricted in that faded black corset. He puts his hand over her breast, delighting in the curve and the weight.   
  
She jumps and he is sorry, sorrier than anything: "I didn't mean to alarm you." He is disappointed with himself, but he doesn't need to be, because she takes his hand and places it back, a little gingerly, perhaps afraid of what he might think of her, but all he thinks is that she is beautiful and perfect and that they should have tried any of this many, many moons before this day.

* * *

She doesn't want him to think she is wanton, but she liked having his hand on her breast. To have someone touch her in a way she has never been touched before is thrilling and especially so because this is her husband and finally, after so many months of not being able to speak of it, she has him here, underneath her, in their bed, doing something that is part of what they have done before.    
  
Fumbles in the dark.    
  
Not in that almost adolescent way Elsie remembers maids speaking of after fairs and dances, back when she was a lass. Not in that clandestine way that killed all Ethel's chances. Not even in that calculating way Edna deceived Tom. Nor the awkwardness of Thomas kissing Jimmy - god that had been an ordeal. Later Jimmy was found in Lady Who-was-she-again's bed during the night fire struck in Lady Edith's room and Charles had to agree that the boy was vain and selfish.   
  
This is not a fumble. Elsie smiles against Charles's shoulder. This could almost be called research. She opens her eyes and looks at his arm. There it is: the scar they share. She touches it lightly with the tip of her finger.   
  
Her wedding ring shines in the pale light. Over Charles's shoulder she can just make out the alarm clock, but she can't see the arms. She needs to be closer to the damned thing to see, but it doesn't matter what time it is. She has nowhere else to be than here, in her husband's arm, trying to turn one another inside out in a way they have never done before.

* * *

Elsie Carson is no innocent. Her husband has touched her before and he has made her feel nice before, but this… this is new. The way his hand travels over her stocking and plays with the frills on her underwear. The way he kisses her in places she didn't know could be kissed: the inside of her elbow, just above the neckline of her chemise. He touches her hip and her waist, the side of her breast and he has taken off his trousers* and his legs are as pale as hers, which is surprising.   
  
His skin is firm and he is being so tender, it brings tears to her eyes.   
  
It's so different from the way they did this before. When it was dark all around them and he would put his hand on her shoulder. When she would take off her underwear and he would hover over her, between her legs and uneasy movements would get them where he wanted to be.    
  
The first time she thought 'is this it? is this what everybody makes such a fuss about? Is this what I warned my maids for?' but now, with Charles touching her in an almost forbidden way that makes her feel hot and supple, a new understanding is growing.   
  
She shivers - perhaps from Charles's fingertips dancing over the inside of her right thigh, or maybe from the cool air in the room. She can't be sure.   
  
"Come…" he says and he gets off the bed and pulls back the bedding. "Let's get under the covers."   
  
She doesn't want to: she wants to see what is there underneath the vest and underwear. But he is right: it is cold in the room and this journey of discovery is not supposed to end up in the cottage hospital, where the pair of them will need to be nursed for pneumonia.   
  
She slides in next to her, but instead of almost tucking her in - as he sometimes does and Elsie sees the care in that, his love for her - he lets the blankets fall as they will and settles on his side, facing her. There's a little space between them, bathed in yellow light where shadows and highlights fall on their bodies.   
  
Charles gently puts a lock of hair back behind her ear and it is so sweet, she cannot help but lean towards him and kiss him.    
  
Kissing is very nice, she finds. Not the pecks that they have been bestowing upon the other for many months now. That started after Charles asked her to marry him - Elsie is aware that most couples have some kind of physical intimacy before popping the question, but she never minded that. It's not who they are.   
  
But maybe they are, because now Charles's arm is around her and his hand feels warm on her back and he bunches up her chemise and she lets him drag it under her before getting up on her elbow to let him take it off.   
  
His hand is barely trembling at all.   
  
Once her chemise is somewhere on the floor, Elsie covers herself with her arms, and watches as Charles pulls off his vest in a swift movement. It lands on the floor, probably not far from hers. The floor must be strewn with clothes. All that's left are her stockings and both their underwear.   
  
She has never been this naked with Charles before.   
  
One arm still covering her breasts, Elsie uses her other to slide it down Charles's arm and he smiles at her. The kind of smile that could be sweet if there wasn't a sliver of desire there.   
  
He doesn't touch her arm. Instead he slides his fingers under the edge of her stocking and rolls it down and everywhere his cool fingers glide, Elsie feels her skin is being set alight. Delicious fire she wishes would cover her completely.   
  
Consume her.    
  
The other stocking follows and they end up somewhere near the footend. Charles burrows down the sheets and he starts kissing a path up her leg and it is a little ticklish, but it is mostly a kind of delicious tingle that travels all through her body. Even to places she never expected to feel a tingle.   
  
It's nice.   
  
It's better than nice. It is thrilling.    
  
Charles's lips are on the inside of her knees and it's strange and delicious. Unlike anything she has any felt ever before and she may have thought it was for young people, but she was wrong about that.   
  
Was she ever wrong about that; Elsie Hughes, who knows what people need before they know it themselves, not knowing about the joy of this.    
  
Charles submerges from under the covers and he kisses her soundly on the lips.   
  
"There are freckles on your knees," he says and Elsie smiles. She does have freckles on her knees. And on other places where he hasn't taken a closer look yet.    
  
"I know."   
  
"I didn't."   
  
Elsie kisses him again. "I am glad you found out."   
  
He smiles. "Thank you for showing them to me."   
  
She doesn't know what to say next. She just wants to keep feeling this way: a tingling heat that shoots through her and makes her feel more alive than she has done in weeks.    
  
"There are more…" she hints and she just adores that gleam in his eye and that quick, almost thoughtless kiss on her lips before he backs down under the blankets again.   
  
"Are you covering them?" he asks and his voice sounds muffled.    
  
"I may be," Elsie answers and she kicks the covers off the pair of them and she blinks a few times to pretend she doesn't feel the cold.   
  
"I think you might need the light to see them."

* * *

* I DON'T REMEMBER IF HE STILL HAS HIS SOCKS ON?!?!?!

  
  



	14. Day 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's NaNo day 14 - the search for smut goes on. But at this rate we might just fade to black to get back to that actual story. After all these years I apparently no longer know how to write smut and this chapter/day is such a mess! Goodness… Tomorrow will pick up with some time passed, I think.

**Day 14**

* * *

Had she ever worried about her aging body would not appeal to a strong man like Charles Carson, Elsie is relieved of that delusion. He showers it with love and attention. His kisses, so new and strange on her legs are tingly and delicious on the little hollow under her neck. His soft, cool fingertips barely touch the dip between her breasts, but it makes her breath hitch. His looks of marvel and delight give her confidence and the heat of his body prevents her from getting cold.  
  
His thumb sliding over her breast is making her gasp. She wants to touch him, but he smiles at her, a wicked smile that promises something she doesn't understand and she lets Charles take control.   
  
When he grasps her shoulder and hip, she doesn't know what he expects, until with a swift movement, she sits on top of him. She can feel him under her, hard, and when she experimentally moves he moans.   
  
She moves again and he shakes his head. "Minx," he says and it makes her laugh. There are still two layers between them: his shorts and her knickers - though of course hers don’t shield her from the world - and Elsie moves again, a little move, more deliberately. He takes a hold of her hips and helps her as she puts her hands on his shoulders.   
  
Her knickers feel cold and the parts where they overlap a little sticky, but she doesn't pay it much attention. She is feeling that tightening and tingling and tickling sensation she sometimes felt before when Charles moved over her in a certain way, but now she is in charge and she picks up a rhythm that leaves her breathless and making little sounds she doesn't know she is capable of.   
  
"Elsie… Els… " Charles tries to still her after some time and she opens her eyes, not remembering when she shut them.   
  
"Yes?" she panting.   
  
"If you keep this up," Charles pauses to catch his breath, "This won't last much longer."   
  
Elsie bites her lip. She understands what he is saying, but she was in the middle of something really nice. She feels as if she was chasing something and she is a little displeased he stopped her. She can tell he knows.   
  
He is squirming under her and his hands leave her hips. She doesn't understand why he is jostling her about so, until she notices that he is trying to take off his shorts.   
  
Which is a capital idea and she follows his example, quickly getting off his lap to untie her knickers and push them down without ceremony. As soon as Charles is also done - and she doesn't look at it, is a little apprehensive, she'll do that later, after, when she… when they are done - she gets back on his lap and she squeals when the skin of her… well, that… touches his skin. It's even better without the barrier of cotton. She slides easier and she makes a louder noise.   
  
"Stop… wait… Elsie… " Charles stops her again and Elsie lets her head fall back in exasperation.   
  
"What?"   
  
Her hair is cascading down her shoulders and back, covering her breasts and she was getting so close to finding that unknown thing she has been chasing.   
  
"Let me… " he takes her hips again and moves her and suddenly he is… well, there… and she gingerly sink down on him.   
  
Her hand flies to her mouth to stifle the scream that bubbles up. Not a scream of pain or of terror.   
  
A scream of delight. Of pleasure. Of joy, even. Charles - so beautiful and different being stark naked under her, good and soft and hard and she slowly moves them both and she pushes against his shoulders as she meets his thrusts and good heavens:   
  
she had no idea it could be like this.

* * *

She rinses out the glass they shared and puts the kettle on. Her feet are cold on the tiles and her hair is a tangled mess, falling on her back. She is wearing her robe, the white one she wore when there was a big shift in the way she looked at life. 

She never thought of life as being particularly fair. Her father didn’t have any sons and one of his daughters couldn’t earn to help with setbacks as they happened upon the farm. Failed crops, dying animals. Illness. 

She didn’t think it particularly fair there was a set of rules that differed depending on a person being upstairs or below it. 

The loss of Lady Sybil had been life-changing. Elsie suddenly saw most of the people she worked with in a different light. Mr Carson especially. Being there to comfort him and drawing comfort from that had been a revelation. 

When she was in bed that night, much later than when they had first heard the news, so late it was barely worth shutting her eyes, she had wept into her pillow - burning tears of loss and regret. The gentle soul of Lady Sybil seemed to hover in a corner of her room, almost as if she were trying to say something. Elsie understood what she said: don’t allow it to go to waste. _ Love is everything _. 

Elsie dries the glass and puts it back in the cupboard. She hangs the teatowel back and takes the kettle from the stove as it whistles. She sets about making herself a cup of tea. 

It will soothe her nerves. 

The hot steam fogs up the kitchen window and it must be later than she thought. She can hear her stomach grumble and she thinks about her husband, upstairs in their bed, fast asleep. He will be famished when he wakes and she hasn’t much in the house. 

But that is of later concern. 

After putting the kettle back on the stove, Elsie pours herself a cup of tea and takes it through to the front room. She puts the cup and saucer on the table and retrieves the tin of biscuits. One or two will help stave off the hunger that is making itself known. 

She curls up on the settee and pulls her feet up so she can cover them with her robe. Her muscles protest and she is a little sore. Down there. 

Elsie is often sore after Charles has shown his affection for her, but this is different and while her limbs ache, it isn’t unpleasant. Her - well, thàt - is uncomfortable but, it isn’t burning and stinging the way it often does. 

She leans over to take her cup from the saucer and feels her chemise shift over her breasts and she is surprised the friction giving her little tingles - tingles she felt all over when Charlie touched her.

The tea eases the hoarseness of her voice and the fire in her throat. She must have been terribly loud: she only remembers this feeling from being a young girl and reeling at a school friend’s wedding. Dancing and shouting and singing and wearing an ill-advised dress. 

The fire in the heater almost died. The embers are orange and black and she considers putting more coal in but she is afraid the shovel will be too heavy for her right now. Even her teacup rattles against the saucer.   
  
Muscles she wasn't aware she had are protesting her every move and perhaps that is why you are supposed to fall asleep afterwards. Elsie tried. She felt soothed by the way Charlie was lying there beside her, so vulnerable and so present. He was warm and his skin so soft. But she couldn't sleep. She was wide awake and even now she feels alert in a way she doesn't recognise.   
  
He whispered "I love you' before he drifted off and there was a little frown in his forehead just before as he looked at her. Searching. As if he expected her to say something else besides 'I love you, too'.   
  
She cannot think of what. She does love him. Has loved him for so long and with him finally seeing her - the freckles, the wrinkles in the skin covering her knees, the scar from Doctor Clarkson's probing needle - Elsie can feel a peace settling within her.   
  
How lucky she is to have found a husband who cherishes her the way Charles does? And how fortunate it is that they found one another. She thinks back to where a seed was planted, when she started seeing him as something more than just a Butler she worked with and it's been so very long ago, she can barely make out the details. When he might have gone to Haxby had weighed heavily on her and she told him as much.   
  
When he collapsed at the dinner table and she thought he would die of a heart attack but she could not allow herself to _ feel _ and she had carried on as usual, just as she tried when she thought she might die.   
  
She had not wanted him to think of her as a sick woman. Dashing away with a smoothing iron… to be able to see that relief and to know there was something for him, too. Him singing and jauntily picking up that silver tray is one of her fondest memories: knitting together her fears and her certainty that he will always be there for her.   
  
He is a very caring man. Elsie blushes when she thinks back to not an hour earlier when he was taking care of her in a way that made her feel as if her body soared through the skies.   
  
Oh yes, Mr Carson is a very caring man.   
  
And Elsie Carson wishes she knew why he was sitting in their front room with a glass of brandy that would be plenty for an old Viscount coming back from the hunt at ten o'clock in the morning. Because the Charles Carson she knows doesn't indulge.   
  
Something must have upset him terribly.   
  
If only he would tell her.

  
  



	15. Day 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers: we are halfway! I hit that 25k SO HARD (also I have no idea what this chapter is, really - just... some good news and moving from one thing to the next) and I really hope you like it.

**Day 15**

* * *

"Well, there's a spring in your step if I ever saw one," Mrs Patmore says and Elsie shakes her head.  
  
"The nonsense you come up with," she says.   
  
"No, it's true. I can see a glint in your eye a mile off. What's happened? Got some good news?" Mrs Patmore is just about the nosiest parker under Downton Abbey's roof.   
  
"What kind of good news would that be?" Elsie asks with a smile.   
  
"Maybe you won the lottery," Mrs Patmore suggests.   
  
"You have to enter to win," Elsie explains. She knows Beryl does buy lottery tickets sometimes, but Elsie has never made such a frivolous purchase in her life. The chances of winning are too slim for her tastes, though Beryl sees it differently. In her view it's a fifty-fifty chance: you win or you don't.   
  
"Then what?" Beryl keeps poking.   
  
"I don't know what you are on about. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do." She turns on her heel and leaves her friend in the hallway. She knows there's a smirk on Beryl's face and Elsie bites her lip, because she knows exactly what put that spring in her step and a more frequent smile on her face.   
  
It's her husband. Who has been very attentive the last few days. Ever since that day she came home early. They have been doing some exploring together and it's been revelation upon revelation (who knew people could fit together in so many different ways? how could she have expected that hands and _ bits _ and lips could work together in ways that make you scream with delight and implode whilst forgetting about all the world outside your body and your lover's?) It has cemented something between them that is beyond this new-found physicality, a kind of intimacy that was bubbling just below the surface, but she couldn't grasp.   
  
There is still something not right, though. That thick, impenetrable layer of melancholy Charles wrapped himself in that brandied up morning hasn't shifted. It's thinned out a little, yes. It doesn't bleed from him the way it did that day, but it's still there and she feels as if it is holding something back in him that they need to move forward.   
  
She hopes he will confide in her soon. She doesn't want him to suffer in silence. She just doesn't understand why he doesn't tell her. If it is about the loss of old Lady Grantham: she understands that he needs time to process that. She also understands if it is indeed the lack of social standing now he is retired and she definitely understands if it is boredom. She understands if is hard for him to make friends, though he has said that isn't the case.   
  
Elsie 's footsteps echo against the walls of the hall and her key in the lock of her parlour door creaks loudly. She inclines her head a little. Locks, keys, Housekeepers: all of them creak a little off late. It's just time and autumn and a little lack of attention. At least Elsie's bones don't creak as much as before and she knows exactly who to thank for that.

* * *

The constant drizzle has made way for a coldspell that leaves his sprouts covered in frost. The skies are painfully blue and migrating birds tweet shrilly as they pass the cottage. Shovel by shovel Charles upends his vegetable garden. There is barely anything left of the crops he harvested earlier. A few leeks perhaps. The sprouts can be pulled from the stalk: those closest to the ground first. He doesn't even like sprouts much.  
  
He checks the wheel of his wheelbarrow and makes a leaf mould stack in a corner of the patch. November is about preparing for the new year. Little odd jobs like fixing the window latch in the shed and tidying the edges of the lawn. Raking leaves.   
  
His arms are aching a little. He is not a young man anymore and the digging is hard on his aging joints and muscles. Making love to Elsie in the new ways they are finding is helping strengthening him and it helps chase some of the darkness he feels inside away.   
  
He never felt that kind of darkness before he retired. Charles carried trays and he announced guests and he wrote wine labels and he played his part as the head of the downstairs household and he very rarely even considered the thing that is plaguing him.   
  
Charles picks up the basket filled with sprouts, leeks and kale and goes to the shed where he painstakingly puts his tools back where they belong and changes his wellies for his shoes. They are filthy, too and he is almost glad.   
  
Shining shoes will be something to do.   
  
He takes his time walking from the shed to the cottage and he looks at the rest of the garden. He's been pruning and he has mowed the lawn. He is very proud of his little home and he is pleased that even though he is plagued with a shaking hand, he can still manage odd jobs that need doing. Tending to the garden, of course, but also oiling the hinges of the front door. Soon he will sand down the window frames and he'll repaint them.   
  
He will make sure the cottage will be a home that is fit for the pair of them. A husband and wife who found the other late in life. Where they can be happy.   
  
Charles sighs as he pushes open the back door and puts the basket on the kitchen counter.   
  
Happiness.   
  
Well, at least it's something to strive for.

* * *

She is biting on the back of her pen and thinking about something Charles could be doing with his surplus of free time now he is retired. She can't really see him fishing: he is a patient man, but heavens how absolutely mind-numbingly dull it must be to sit by the waterside with a stick and thread and wait for a fish to decide to bite a baited hook.  
  
A hobby that would involve a little bit of thinking, perhaps. Something he can still do with a trembling hand. Collecting something or other. Though not stamps: faffing about with a pair of tweezers and trying to get the tiny pieces of paper settled between sheets of parchment. Besides, he would feel stamps are best used on envelopes to send letters.   
  
He wouldn't be wrong.

His hand shakes too much for woodcarving, for penmanship. Elsie runs her hand over her cheek. There's something which he turns out to be very good at, but for that they need to be together. A blush creeps to her cheeks and she takes a shallow breath. Her corset never felt like a great restriction, but lately it's been bothering her. She'll have to put up with it, the way she did when she was a lass.  
  
There's a knock - inevitably, there's always a knock, a cry, even a phone call sometimes these days - and the door opens a crack.   
  
"Mrs Hughes?"   
  
"Yes, Anna?"   
  
"Might I have a quick word?"   
  
They are always quick words. They always only need a moment. Nobody ever asks for half an hour, for an afternoon. Only Charles has asked her for a lifetime (yes, Joe asked, but she didn't give it, couldn't have, not to him) and she is giving it to him freely.

“Of course. What’s on your mind?” Elsie indicated Anna should sit in the chair that visitors usually occupy. Elsie likes to keep an eye on the clock and the door and chooses her seat accordingly. Anna sits down. She laces her hands together and puts them in her lap.   
  
"Mr Bates told me he asked you to speak with Lady Mary," Anna starts.   
  
"That's true, he did. He didn't confide in me as to why, but I told him…"   
  
"You told him I should ask her myself, which is exactly what I said you would say." Anna shrugs in a way Elsie has seen her do before: a mixture of resigned exasperation and loving indulgence.   
  
Elsie frowns. "Have you come to ask me the same?   
  
Anna smiles. Elsie is so pleased to see that easy smile has returned.   
  
"I have not. If I felt I needed to reduce my workload, I would talk to Lady Mary, but there's no need for that yet."   
  
A rush of unexpected nervousness clenches around Elsie's breastbone. The sudden realisation is just a little much for her to handle - not just that Anna is clearly expecting, but that she was right when she thought Anna carried herself differently. When Mr Bates beat around the bush so much he irritated Elsie, which never happened before.   
  
Her fingers are icy cold, but she reaches out her hand and Anna takes it with another smile.   
  
"We're not telling anyone yet," she says. "But with Mr Bates making it known the way he did, I thought it would be best if I cleared away any suspicions."   
  
"Does… erm… does Lady Mary know?" Elsie asks, pushing past a lump in her throat.   
  
"No. There's no need to notify her yet. It's early days."   
  
"But you are…" Elsie can't find it within herself to say the word - any of the words she knows for what is going on with Anna.   
  
Anna nods* with another bright smile and she squeezes Elsie's hand. Elsie squeezes back.   
  
They sit together silently in way Elsie almost forgot they could. Through the years, Elsie lost and gained Anna's trust and she never once blamed her for it. But she misses what they once had. An easy connection. Being allowed to care a little. To have someone to bestow her legacy as a housekeeper upon.   
  
Though he didn't look at it that way, Charles trained Thomas to take over from him. Everything Thomas knows, he knows because Charles taught him. The few weeks he was away, Thomas learned a lot about himself - things he couldn't learn from Charles. Or from Elsie.   
  
Elsie _ was _ training Anna before Lord Grantham hired Mr Bates. She told Anna not only what to do, but why they do it that particular way. Anna was always a quick student. Assertive. Full of initiative. Steady - much like Elsie was at that age.   
  
And now the girls who was going to be Elsie's successor, is going to have another baby and Elsie couldn't be happier for her. In life you accept the hand you are dealt, Elsie thinks. She is just lucky that she's always been able to play her hand so far.

* * *

* I don't know if you can have another baby after dealing with an 'incompetent cervix' but this is fanfiction (and I don't have time to research)

  
  



	16. Day 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The infamous 'mid-NaNo writer's block' struck, but lovely loves on Tumblr pulled me through. Thank you so much, I truly appreciate it so incredibly much. Your support throughout this whole nano has been amazing and I could never do this without you!  
I know a few of you will feel short-changed at this chapter. I just couldn't put Elsie through it...

**Day 16B**

* * *

He wakes from Elsie's alarm, cuddles her close and kisses her before she leaves the bed and gets dressed. He likes watching her change from his wife into the housekeeper. He loves them both. His wife for her obvious love for him, the way she cares and looks after him. The housekeeper for the way she can make you feel two feet small with just a few choice words.  
  
She takes off her nightgown and shivers. He doesn't mind looking at the way her body reacts to the cold air in their bedroom. When she puts on layer upon layer, he feels as if he watches a flower close its petals. The chemise, see-through and soft. The underwear with frills and ribbons to close it around her small waist. Her stockings both thick and delicate in the way they have been machine knitted. How she puts her shoes on then, which baffled him before, but he understands now.   
  
The corset that pushes and forces her body into the shape she prefers. Now Charles knows what is under that corset, he wishes she could leave it. He worries she can't be comfortable at all in that thing and he feels lucky he never has to bother with a torture devise like it.   
  
She clips her stockings to the garter clips that hang from the corset and puts on the corset cover and slip and finally her dress, which she hooks with automated movements.   
  
Her dark dresses are making her stand out in the harsh light of the bathroom when she cleans her teeth and does her hair. He never knew that a woman's coiffure could be so complicated, nor did he know that it could be pinned into place within a few quick minutes.   
  
When she steps out of the bathroom, he knows she is still Elsie by the way she carries herself, the soft look in her eyes, but she is only inches away from being the Housekeeper.   
  
"Charlie?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"I was thinking, maybe you could write some of your retired friends and ask them how they spend their time. They must find it equally difficult to fill their sudden spare time."   
  
She sits on the edge of the bed and touches his cheek.   
  
"There's no need, I'm fine," he says and he delights in her incredulous look.   
  
"Elsie, most of the butlers I know who are retired live in London. They have museums to go to and parks and they can go to the theatre. There's not much of that around Downton, or Thirsk or even Ripon."   
  
She leans over and kisses him briefly. "Just think about it. I have to be off. I'll see if I can persuade Daisy to make custard tarts so I can pilfer a few for you."   
  
He shakes his head. "You really can't keep feeding me from the Servants' Hall budget, Mrs Hughes," he says, even if he appreciates it. It's not right to leech of his former employers.   
  
"Mr Carson, taking two or three custard tarts is hardly feeding you. Mrs Patmore is finding it difficult to cater to the diminished staff and there's always much left over. It would be very wasteful to just throw it all away."   
  
She kisses him again. "I love you," she says and his heart jumps at the words. She rarely says it first, if at all. 

He never tires of hearing it.  
  
"I love you, too," he answers and watches her leave the room, listens to her going down the stairs, putting on her coat and hat and their front door open and close.   
  
Now his day really starts: ablutions, getting dressed, breakfast. Then endless freedom to spend the hours as he pleases. Sometimes Elsie returns to the cottage with lunch, but she didn't say she would today. So he'll not see her until much later and he wishes he could just be there with her.   
  
Freedom is all well and good and often something men crave, but to him it is just endless time to consider all the things you don't want to think about.

* * *

"Mrs Hughes?"  
  
"Yes, Daisy?"   
  
Elsie feels there isn't a day goes by without someone coming towards her with that very specific intonation of her title.   
  
"Mrs Patmore told me there is something you wanted to discuss? Only I have a few moments right now and if you've time?"   
  
Elsie nods and inhales deeply. Now is as good a time as any. She doesn't have very much to do, just the usual overseeing of the maids, tallying of the laundry bill and going over the stores with Mrs Patmore.   
  
"Alright. Let's go into my sitting room. You may want to bring a glass of water for the both of us. Or maybe some tea?"   
  
Daisy turns around and goes into the kitchen. Elsie watches her: the assistant cook's steps are still swift, but no longer skittish. Daisy has matured a lot over time, even if she sometimes flies off the handle and acts before thinking.   
  
Elsie goes into her sitting room and closes the ledgers she was working on and puts away the book she is reading. Her days are very empty without having Charles to talk to. Mr Barrow is working very hard and putting all the years of his training to good practice, but he is not someone Elsie confides in. She doesn't discuss Helen's new beau with Thomas, nor the new maid's badly explained bruises.   
  
So she reads.   
  
"I've got a freshly brewed pot of tea and Mrs Patmore even lets us have some biscuits, so I am a little worried about what you want to tell me. It's not about Andy handing in his notice, is it? I mean, he wants to be a farmer and when we are married, it will be nice for him to live on the farm."   
  
Daisy talks thirteen words to the dozen and Elsie takes the tray Daisy is carrying and places it on the table.   
  
"It's not about Andrew's resignation," Elsie says and she pushes the door closed.   
  
"Well, that's a bit of a relief. Is it about me? Because I will still come in every day, same as I have been doing."   
  
"No. No, it isn't about that either. Anna comes in every morning just like you and me. We'd have no staff left if we didn't let anyone come in from the village."   
  
Elsie sits down across from Daisy and starts pouring. Steam blows from the spout and clouds the air between her and Daisy and that's as good a moment to begin this conversation that she knows will be as awkward for Daisy as it is for her.   
  
"Mrs Patmore has asked me to talk to you about being married," she says.   
  
"About marriage?"   
  
"She told me to answer any of your questions."   
  
Not a lie, she thinks, perhaps a half-truth. Another one. Her life seems to be made up of those lately.   
  
"What kind of questions would I have about marriage? I know how to cook my husband a meal and how to take care of the household: I have been looking after Mr Mason since I moved in."   
  
Daisy may have taken all those exams with Mr Dawes, she still doesn't read between the lines. Elsie picks up her cup and sips. The tea is still very hot, but it's better than to dive into the dreaded subject immediately. She needs a bit of courage.   
  
"Questions about the wedding night… and maybe the nights to follow," Elsie tries to be clear but delicate.   
  
"Oh…" Elsie is glad to see it's dawned on Daisy. "Well… erm… I don't want to sound ungrateful, Mrs Hughes, but… erm…"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"I already asked Anna."

* * *

The cold air and blue skies are so inviting, he decides to put on his coat, hat and scarf and to go for a walk. First to the village post office for some stamps and then onwards. For exercise. He knows he is allowed to go for a walk any time he likes, but it still feels a bit…Naughty, is perhaps the best word for it.   
  
Like a child taking a left turn instead of a right when going to school. Not that he ever did that, his father would have given him a spanking he wouldn't have forgotten in a hurry. But he imagines it probably feels that way. He never took much time off. Sometimes he would go into the village, like now, for stamps. The lads in his care loved going to the cinema, but he never went.   
  
Maybe he can take Elsie to see a flick. It won't be like the theatre, but she would sometimes look at her maids when they talked about the flicks they'd seen so longingly, he thinks she might enjoy it. He can go into the village and see what they have running. Then ask Elsie if she would like to go, maybe tomorrow or the day after.   
  
Something they can do together. Besides dipping their toes in the sea and a few outings to see houses for them to invest in, they haven't gone out together at all. Not like Andrew takes Daisy out. Or how Mr Branson used to take Lady Sybil out, though that was of a whole other calibre he doesn't even want to envision.   
  
It's about a forty-five minute walk to the village and Charles Carson takes his time. He has decided to take his lunch in the pub, which will be pleasant, especially if he meets with one of the men who has become acquainted with. He can see himself settled with a Ploughman's and half a pint of bitter.   
  
Content with his decision, he walks on and crosses the town square, careful not to step in the muddy patches on the ground. As he comes nearer to the pub, and he looks around the town. He sees several women going about their daily shopping, two men working at mending the road; a man and woman - obviously married, a couple, like he and Elsie are - talking quietly and smiling at the other while she pushes a pram and he carries a parcel.   
  
He quickly turns his head and pushes open the door of the pub and goes straight to the bar.   
  
"A pint of bitter, please," he asks the barman and he looks at the dimly lit room. Most tables are not occupied, but in the far corner, he sees a familiar face and not only that, he is being recognised himself.   
  
"Come in here for a spot of lunch, Mr Carson?"   
  
"Yes, I did, Mr Mason. And you?"   
  
"Oh, the same. A bit of Ted's shepherd's pie and my pint and then back to the farm. Not that there is much to do, mind. Andy has taken over most all of the work now."   
  
Charles takes his glass of bitter and sits down next to Mr Mason.   
  
He is very glad of the distraction.


	17. Day 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles talks to Mr Mason and Elsie talks to Johnny Bates and all in all day 17 of this NaNo project is a bit chatty. There are worse things, I suppose...

**Day 17**

* * *

"Did you know Daisy already asked Anna about the wedding night?" Elsie asks when Beryl takes Daisy's place. Daisy's cup of tea has stood untouched, and Beryl picks it up and sips.  
  
"That's as good as cold," she says and drains the cup in one.   
  
"Did you know?" Elsie pushes.   
  
"Of course I didn't know. How could I have known?" Beryl picks up a biscuit and chews thoughtfully. "I am not surprised though. That girl has learned where to find information."   
  
"Well, it took five years off my life, I can tell you that much," Elsie confesses and she pours the both of them another cup of tea.   
  
"I did tell you to send her to Anna in the first place."   
  
"Yes, Miss High-and-Mighty. So you did."   
  
Elsie drinks her tea and Beryl drinks her tea and Elsie thinks about how she could have told Daisy a little more now she and Charles are learning and no longer shying away but still. Anna is a much better person to ask. Especially now.   
  
Elsie is so happy for Anna. To have your dream come true must be wonderful and Elsie really wants for Anna to have her wishes fulfilled. She never had many wishes herself. Only easy ones; wishes on falling stars and single eyelashes as they drift off on the wind. Wishes of custard with your apple pie. Of sunshine on your birthday.   
  
Elsie imagines Thomas has wishes, too. To be free to be who he is without having to hide. A way to be with his gentleman friend without having to skulk in darkened doorways. One day, maybe, the world will change enough that men like Thomas can at least be free from prosecution. She never understood that anyway. What harm does loving a fellow human being do?   
  
"You are miles away," Beryl says and she bites down on another biscuit. Elsie looks up.   
  
"I'm sorry. Off with the faeries, my mam would have said."   
  
"Did you go off with the faeries as a child?"   
  
Elsie shakes her head. "Not that I remember."   
  
There wasn't much time to sit and dawdle, nor was there much peace to be had; Becky made lots of repetitive noises all the live long day. Add to that the howling wind, lashing rain and complaining of the sheep; the sweeping of floors, the peeling of potatoes and the drying of dishes and there was barely a moment for Elsie to think, let alone dream.   
  
"I should get back to work," Elsie says, but she doesn't move.   
  
"I should get back to work an' all, but…" Beryl doesn't move either.   
  
The Cook and the Housekeeper look at one another and sigh in unison.

* * *

Charles drinks from his swift half. He would prefer a glass of wine, but he knows the wine that is being served at The Grantham Arms is little better than vinegar. Besides: he wouldn't like to be made fun of for drinking wine. While men in France, Italy and Spain drink little else, Englishmen drink beer.   
  
He is very English, so he will grin and bear it.   
  
"Must be a trying time at the farm, with the wedding approaching," Charles says, striking up a conversation. It's not easy for him. Unlike Elsie, it is difficult to just make contact. If he wants something, he can do it, if he needs information, or a sheet of stamps or a tin of silver polish. But just to pass the time? That is something he needs to practice.   
  
Luckily Mr Mason is easy to talk to and he seems to understand Charles   
  
"Not really," Mr Mason answers and he waves down the barman. "Shepherd's pie on the menu today?" he calls and the barman nods solemnly.   
  
"Would you like some, Mr Carson?" Mr Mason asks and Charles agrees: either that or a steak and kidney pie and he isn't that fussed. As long as he is being fed.   
  
"Two then. But we are not in a rush. Tell 'm to take his time." 

Mr Mason leans back against the bench and looks at Charles. “Daisy and Beryl have everything well in hand. I don’t get involved. I’ll just show up at the right place at the right time in the suit they have laid out for me.”  
  
"It will be very different from the other wedding," Charles says, not quite knowing how to be delicate about it, but wanting to address it. Letting Mr Mason know that William isn't forgotten.   
  
"Aye, it will be an' all."   
  
"I've been thinking about William a lot, lately," Charles says. He has, on his walks and when he is pottering about the garden. William was always so eager to please and he a kind-hearted young fellow. He could do wonders with horses and Charles knows he wasn't really meant to be in service, not in the way he was always supposed to be.   
  
"Hmm. Daisy and I talked about how strange it is. If he had pulled through, they would have been married for almost ten years now. Time goes by so quickly," Mr Mason joins Charles in his musings and he takes a bit gulp of his ale.   
  
"I'm not sad about Daisy marrying Andy, mind. Not at all. Andy is a good lad and he is going to be a good farmer. He still has a lot to learn, but that's the thing about farming, you never stop learning. About crops or about tending livestock."   
  
"Mr Barrow will be sorry to see Andrew go," Charles says and he can understand Mr Barrow all too well. It's not easy finding young men who want to learn the art. Charles thinks it's an art, being a good servant.   
  
"There'll be someone else. It may take a while, but we can both put a word out. There's a lot of women who would rather see their boy in the big house than in the mills."   
  
Mr Mason waves at the barman again and he holds up his almost empty pint glass. "One more for you, too?"   
  
Charles shrugs. "Why not."   
  
"Did you say Mrs Patmore has everything under control, just now?"   
  
"She has been 'round a few times a week. Helping Daisy setting up, though of course we really already have everything she could need in the house. But it is nice for a lass to have her own things. Beryl has been a great help, coming over and bringing us treats. Yes, she is a very kind woman."   
  
Mr Mason's eyes glitter a bit.   
  
"I won't mind telling you, Mr Carson, all this talk of the wedding and being in the middle of the preparations make me think about maybe asking her."   
  
Charles raises his eyebrows. "Asking her?" he repeats stupidly, his mind sluggish from indulging once again so early in the day.   
  
"I think she'll accept. Daisy has been hinting at it none too subtly. Will be nice for Daisy, too."   
  
Charles can feel the lack of understanding play out all over his face and Mr Mason makes a hand gesture to give a little more power to his words.   
  
"Yes, for Beryl to be settled at the farm before the babies start coming." He chuckles a little. "I won't mind the wailing of an infant, but I won't change it's nappy!"   
  
Charles doesn't know what to say to that, but he is lucky: their lunch is being served.

* * *

"Mizhooz?"  
  
Elsie is on the landing in front of the nursery when she hears the childish bending of her name. When she turns around, she finds Johnny Bates standing in his underclothes, a little stuffed toy under his arm. He is looking at her with a very serious expression on his face.   
  
"What is it, Johnny?" She bends over so they are closer in height. Or at least their faces are almost at the same wavelength.   
  
"Bath time."   
  
Elsie is a little surprised. It is only three o'clock and the children normally have their baths before bed. Johnny has his at the cottage.   
  
"Why is it bath time, Johnny?"   
  
"Caro paint on Johnny and Georgie and Nanny upset," Johnny tells her in that broken way toddlers string sentences together.   
  
Elsie takes a good look at the little boy. He is so perfect: his skin is so soft and smooth, the proportions of his physique still doll-like with his head a little large for his body. Floppy blonde hair that reminds her of Anna's and a determined look on his face that could be his father's.   
  
There's no paint on him whatsoever.   
  
"Did Miss Caroline paint on you?" she asks.   
  
"Yes on jumper."   
  
"So now Nanny is cross with Miss Caroline?"   
  
"Johnny not in bath." He says instead of answering and Elsie's heart just overflows with feelings for this little lad, standing on the landing, barefooted, in his little shorts and vest.   
  
"Aren't you cold, Johnny?"   
  
Johnny nods. "No clothes," he explains. He takes a few more steps towards Elsie and starts to lean into her legs. Elsie's skirts fall around him a little and he looks up to her with those big questioning eyes. Elsie can't help herself, she takes a step back and picks up the little lad and he cuddles into her.   
  
"Mizhooz warm," he declares and Elsie carries him into the nursery.   
  
She easily moves him from her front to her hip and Johnny is still slight enough for her not to ache.   
  
"Nanny?" she calls and Nanny answers from the _ en suite _ . Elsie makes her way to the door and she is welcomed by steam when she opens it. Miss Caroline and Master George are in the tub and Johnny was not telling any lies: both children are covered in paint, though Elsie suspects it is only watercolors. Nothing to worry about.   
  
"Oh, I am sorry Mrs Hughes," Nanny starts, "I told Johnny to get under the covers of the bed, but I didn't have time to check up on him. I hope he didn't get in the way."   
  
Elsie looks on to the idyllic picture in front of her. "Johnny and I met by chance on the landing, he didn't get in the way in the slightest." She runs her nose through his soft hair. He smells like hope and promise.   
  
"If you put him down, he can splash in the bath with Miss Caroline and Master George," Nanny says as she rubs down Master George's forearm with a terry cloth.   
  
"No! No! No!" Johnny cries and he hides his face in Elsie's neck.   
  
"I don't think Johnny feels very much inclined to take you up on that offer, Nanny," Elsie says and she smiles kindly at Nanny, who she can easily see has her hands more than full with Lady Mary's two little ones.   
  
"I'll take him downstairs with me. I have a blanket in my room and Mrs Patmore will love to spoil him a little. Just ring when you are ready for him and I will take him back upstairs," Elsie tells - it is not a request.   
  
Nanny agrees gladly and returns to scrubbing down the children.   
  
"Come one then, Johnny," Elsie says to the little boy and she carefully goes down the stairs, while listening to his joyful stories told in words and phrases she doesn't understand.

  
  



	18. Day 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the 18th day of NaNo, your author gives to you: fluff before heartbreak! Because it always feels better that way (it doesn't)

**Day 18** \- 

* * *

"Who have we here?" Mr Barrow says and Johnny leans back against Elsie, a little intimidated.   
  
"Johnny and I met on the landing and we are giving Nanny a few moments to tidy things up and clean up, Mr Barrow," Elsie explains.   
  
"We better make sure you don't catch a cold, young man," Mr Barrow says and Johnnie nods gravely.    
  
"I'll take him into my sitting room, I've got a fire going and he can play on the floor." Elsie turns and walks into the hall.   
  
"Goodbye, Mr Barrow," Johhny says and Elsie notices the smile on Thomas's face: friendly and kind. One she doesn't often get to see.    
  
"Come on, then. I know your father is upstairs with Lord Grantham and your mother is with Lady Mary and I think they went into Ripon, so we'll have to see how we can entertain you."   
  
"Johnny thirsty," the lad says and Elsie laughs.    
  
"A detour by the kitchen, then," she announces and takes a right instead of a left.   
  
"Well if it isn't Johnny Bates!" Beryl exclaims, a little exaggerated, but Johnny responds well to it. He smiles and points.   
  
"To what do we owe this pleasure?"    
  
"Nanny has her hands a bit full and Johnny wandered off. So I offered to look after him for a bit, which was very silly, because have a great many things to do." She emphasises her word by gently bopping Johnny's belly with her finger. Johnny squeals with delight.   
  
"You will want a glass of milk and some biscuits for the little tyke, I suppose," Beryl says and Elsie nods.   
  
"And a cup of tea, if you can bear it."   
  
Beryl puts her hands on her hips. "I'll have to see what I can do," she says with a wink.   
  
"He is lovely, isn't he," she continues after giving him a thorough look over. "He looks just like Anna."   
  
Elsie agrees. He is a bonnie little lad and she is very pleased she gets to be with him for a bit. He is also two years old and being well looked after and Elsie isn't as young as she once was: he is starting to feel quite heavy on her hip, while earlier she thought he was still so slight.   
  
"Let's go to my sitting room: I have some books for you there and paper and a pencil so you can draw your mother a nice picture, how's that?"   
  
"Yes, drawing!"    
  
Beryl and Elsie chuckle at his exuberance.    
  
"You go on, I'll send Daisy in with a tray in a bit; I'm off to Yew Tree Farm," Beryl says and she unties her apron.   
  
"Without Daisy?"   
  
"Bill - Mr Mason that is, is thinking up a surprise for the young couple and he has asked for my help."   
  
"Alright," Elsie has a sneaking suspicion it's not about the surprise Mr Mason wants to see Beryl, but she doesn't mind. A little nudge here and there and maybe after Daisy's wedding, they'll see another one. Like they say: from a wedding comes a wedding.

* * *

It's rather later than he thought: Mr Mason isn't very talkative normally, but today he had a lot to tell. Luckily after their pints were drained and their pies were eaten (not bad, just not what he is used to, but he has learned that Mrs Patmore's cooking is exceptional) Mr Mason got up quite quickly, telling Charles he should be heading home as he was expecting Beryl - Mrs Patmore that is - to help him with a surprise he wants to put on for Andy and Daisy.   
  
Charles didn't mind. The conversation had made him uneasy within himself. Again.    
  
He longs for Elsie. To hold her hand. To feel steady, as she once promised him. She is the only person he truly trusts to be there for him. Whatever may come. She lovingly took his trembling hand in hers and soothed the tremor. She brought him soup when he was laid up with his not-a-heart-attack. She interfered heavy-handedly and turned his feud with Grigg into something he could put behind him.   
  
What does he bring to their marriage?   
  
He loves her, which he knows is not unimportant. He is learning to give her pleasure - his breath hitches, he really shouldn't be thinking about that, but by gum, it is making a difference - and he can provide. Their home, the cost of Becky's care*. He feels it's important and that Elsie needs to be secure in those things. That having those needs taken care of means that she can be free.   
  
One day.   
  
When she stops traipsing up the road to the house.    
  
Charles walks around the town square and past the cinema. They are running 'Sunshine, a tale of two people'. The poster is garish and bright and he can't imagine how he would enjoy anything that would inspire a bright yellow poster with a jazz band in the top corner. But it will give him something to do and there's nothing waiting for him at home.    
  
"How much?" he asks the lady at the till.    
  
"One and six*," she says, looking at him with a frown. "It's starting in ten minutes."   
  
Charles sighs and deeps up the coins needed from his wallet. The lady gives him his ticket, a small paper thing that could easily be lost. He puts it in his trouser pocket and goes into the dark hall, cursing himself for even considering this will be a decent pastime.

* * *

Elsie has put down the blanket on the floor and stoked up the fire: her sitting room is very warm now, but she doesn't mind. The little boy is making elaborate drawings on a sheet of paper she has ripped out of her ledger. Long scratches made with a blunt pencil held in a small fist.    
  
She watches him from the low seat. She has her ledger on her lap, but she hasn't given it a single look since sitting down. She observes Johnny Bates. He is sweet and cheerful and like Mrs Patmore said, he is very much like his mother.    
  
"Mizhooz?"   
  
"Yes, Johnny?"   
  
"May another biscuit, please?"    
  
Elsie can't resist the way he is so polite and forgetting words and the way he looks at her with those bright eyes. She gives him another biscuit and he puts down his pencil and eats with tiny little bites, savouring Mrs Patmore's prime baked goods.   
  
He has had several already.    
  
This is what spoiling is.   
  
Elsie feels so thankful she gets to spoil Johnny, even a little. She feels strongly about him, a mixture of love and joy and a pureness she doesn't know the right words for. Sometimes, when she is late going home, she sees Anna and Mr Bates off and she gives Johnny a little cuddle. As if it is the most normal thing in the world.    
  
She considers herself very lucky to have those moments and they are bright spots in a life full of shadows. Little Johnny's happy babbling, Charles's eyes lighting up when he sees her - all shining and warming her. There's more happiness in her life, now, than she ever had before.    
  
She never thought she would have any of this: a husband who loves her and who looks after her with tender care and a kind of respect for her as a person she has not had before. A young child in her room to dote upon when she has the opportunity. Being appreciated as housekeeper.   
  
There's a knock on her door that interrupts her musings. "Mrs Hughes?"   
  
It's Anna and she smiles upon her child before turning back to the housekeeper.   
  
"Are you alright?" Anna asks.   
  
"Perfectly," Elsie says, feeling very content.   
  
"Mummy!" Johnny cries out and Anna picks him up and holds him close for a bit.   
  
"Would you mind if he stayed here a little longer? Nanny has taken the children into the Library for their daily visit and Lady Mary has asked me to go over Miss Caroline's clothes."   
  
"Of course," Elsie readily agrees.   
  
"Mummy is going to go upstairs for a bit and you can stay with Mrs Hughes, isn't that nice?" Anna asks in that playful, sing-song way mothers speak to their children when they want them to agree.   
  
She puts Johnny back on the blanket and turns to Elsie. "I'll be an hour or so. She doesn't need me tonight, so I'll take him home with me when I come back."   
  
"Alright. I'll see you then. Don't worry about Johnny, we'll get along fine."   
  
Anna turns stretches out her hand to open the door and Elsie gets up, holding the ledger in her hand. It's strangely heavy.   
  
"Anna?"   
  
"Yes, Mrs Hughes?"   
  
"Are you alright?"    
  
It means so many things at once, this question Elsie asks on a sunny autumn afternoon. Are you happy? Are you healthy? Are you getting everything that you need, from Mr Bates, from Lady Mary?    
  
From me.   
  
"I'm well enough," Anna says cheerfully and it's an unexpected answer. Elsie puts the ledger behind her on the chair and takes the few steps towards Anna and takes her hand.  
  
"Are you sure?"   
  
"I'm sure."   
  
"You can tell me if there's anything wrong," Elsie tries.   
  
"I have to get upstairs," Anna deflects. "Be good for Mrs Hughes, Johnny. Mummy will be back soon."   
  
And with that, Anna lets go of Elsie's hand and disappears into the hall.

* * *

Just as he thought: the movie was melodramatic and the music was irritating him more than he can possibly express. He is glad he didn't take Elsie. He would have complained to her the whole feature long and annoyed her.    
  
He missed the commentary she might have had. Barbed witticisms that could rival Lady Grantham's and eyerolls that would have made him want to kiss her. Not that he could have seen those: the cinema was very dark. There were few people in there, but smoke from cigarettes filled the room and he had been very uncomfortable.   
  
A lesson learned, then. Not the cinema for him. He would be better off reading the penny dreadfuls that were so popular when he was a young man. He remembers the housekeeper before Elsie confiscating them regularly. He never liked them much. He saved his pennies to buy a serial, instead.   
  
Charles walks on and he muses that he still enjoys to read. That there is a library in Thirsk, which is a long walk, but there's a bus going twice a day. He might invest in a library lending card. the books they read at the cottage are always the same once and he would like to have something new. It might be, as Elsie always says 'quietly thrilling'.   
  
He keeps walking and he is a little surprised to see he is staring Downton Abbey right in the face. He sighs. It doesn't happen often, but it's not good. Finding yourself at the place you try to avoid without remembering you're going there. He checks his watch. It is almost time for tea to be served in the Library.    
  
Maybe Mrs Patmore has a cup to spare. Or Daisy, seeing Mrs Patmore is supposed to be at Yew Tree Farm. He nods very decidedly and goes around the house to the servants' entrance and pushes open the door.

* * *

* I have no idea, but it sounds good… converting money from one currency to another is one thing, but then calculating it through inflation? YEAH NOT ON YOUR NANO YOU'RE NOT

  
  



	19. Day 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mistake. Yesterday's wasn't heartbreaking. Today's is. Strap in lads. Tuesdays are for crying. (Yes, I know there are some weird lines in here, I will fix them in editing)

**Day 19**

* * *

All the familiar smells, the familiar sounds, the way the light falls on the tiles, the coats hanging by the door: this is where he belonged for forty years and it feels as much like home as the cottage does.  
  
"Good afternoon, Mr Carson!" one of the young maids says. He doesn't remember her name; he saw her only once or twice during his revival as Butler. He nods and walks on, through the hall and into the Servants' Hall where Miss Baxter is sewing something - mending one of her Ladyship's dresses no doubt. Tea has been laid out and he glances at the clock.   
  
"Mr Carson!" Mr Barrow's voice precedes him. "In perfect time for tea."   
  
"If you mind…" Charles says, feeling slightly uncomfortable.   
  
"Not in the slightest," Mr Barrow says with a smile that Charles doesn't recognise as either sneer or kindness.   
  
He sits down on the chair closest to him. Mr Barrow takes his place at the head of the table and to his own surprise, it doesn't fill Charles with any kind of ill feeling. There might even be a tinge of pride lingering when he sees how Mr Barrow addresses the maids, footmen and hallboys. Anna is missing from the few who are sitting around the table he knows so well. Mr Bates isn't there either. The one person Charles misses most keenly is Mrs Hughes; his wife.   
  
"Mr Carson, I didn't know you were stopping by!" Mrs Patmore exclaims as she sets down a tray with bread and butter and a small pile of toasted teacakes.   
  
"I was taking a walk," Charles starts and Mrs Patmore's hand rests on his shoulder.   
  
"I understand. Well, I must be off!" she says and she bustles into the hall and he can hear her taking her coat and hat off the rack. Daisy brings in the tea and Mr Barrow signs everyone can start. He enjoys being back at this table. Listening to the conversations around him, watching how the staff interacts. Mr Barrow and Miss Baxter discussing a dinner that is coming up, Daisy and the new maid whose name he doesn't know talking about the wedding. Andy asking him this and that.   
  
The smell of the teacakes wafting towards him, the sound of knives on plates. Everybody in the places they have always been, except for him, except for Thomas, who is presiding over this table, as he should and Elsie, who is not to be seen anywhere in the Servants' Hall.   
  
"Where's Mrs Hughes?" Charles asks after a good twenty minutes and the meal is dwindling down and upstairs bells start ringing.   
  
"She's in her sitting room. I brought her a tray," Daisy says as she is standing up to clear the table.   
  
"I'll think I'll go and say 'hello'." He sounds a little defensive, but Mr Barrow doesn't make a single remark. He barely even looks at Charles, gives him a curt smile, a humming noise that could be interpreted as permission to leave the table.   
  
A little movement Charles recognises, but he can't remember where he saw it.

* * *

"Carry the seven…" Elsie mumbles to herself, trying to keep track of what she is doing over the sound of Johnny's playing. He is still pushing the wooden block around and happily talking to himself. Elsie isn't used to the sound and it interferes with her ability to work, but she tries and she doesn't mind being distracted.   
  
She looks at the clock. She is lucky Daisy brought her a tray, because she can hear the sounds of tea being prepared - Beryl ordering Daisy about and the inaudible responses from the assistant-cook, the staff talking amongst themselves - she even imagines she can hear the vague rumble of her husband's voice (as she often does, because this is where he is supposed to be, close to her, they weren't ready to be parted, not really). The enamel cup of milk is empty and Elsie's cup is drained. The slice of bread and the two teacakes are in the safest places possible.   
  
"Mizhooz?"   
  
"Yes, Johnny?"   
  
"Johnny cold," he says and he yawns a little. Nanny is taking her sweet time today, Elsie thinks. The boy needs his nap. Then again: Master George and Miss Caroline are being doted on in the Library and it's not Nanny's fault it is taking such a long time.   
  
Elsie closes her ledger, gets up from the chair and puts it on her desk. She stretches a little, her lower back protesting and then relaxing. She picks up the blanket from the floor and takes it with her, back to the chair.   
  
"Would you like to sit with me?" she asks and Johnny takes the wooden block and toddles over to Elsie and allows her to pick him up. He settles against her, showing her the block.   
  
"Car, like Caro daddy," he says and he yawns again. Elsie wraps the blanket around him and Johnny puts his head against her, just below the shoulder. Between the edge of her corset and her clavicle.   
  
"Soft Mishooz," Johnny says tiredly. He sighs deeply and Elsie sees his eyes flutter.   
  
Until they are shut.   
  
The long dark eyelashes lay against pale skin. He isn't asleep just yet and Elsie starts singing a lullabye.   
  
A song she listened to so long ago, she is surprised she still remembers the melody and the words of the last verse:   
  
"_Hush ye, my bairnie,_   
bonnie wee laddie   
sleep now and close your eyes   
rest ye are taking   
sound be thy sleeping   
and bright be thy waking   
hush ye, my bairnie   
_bonnie wee laddie_"   
  
" 'Gain, please, Mizhooz," Johnny asks, his eyes closed, his breathing almost evened out. He drops the block and it falls on the floor. Elsie will pick it up later, so she won't fall over it. Johnny is feeling warm and heavier against her and Elsie wonders if he is feeling as safe and loved as she does when Charles wraps her in his arms at night.   
  
Elsie starts singing again, the same words her mother used to sing and she can tell when Johnny sinks into slumber. Once more the words leave her lips as she looks at the sleeping child in her lap and kisses the top of his head. Her heart is overflowing and she is so thankful Anna is allowing her this moment. A moment she never thought she would have and…   
  
An odd sound shakes her from her reflections and she looks up, towards the door and sees Charles, leaning against the doorframe, his hand clenched, the fist pressing against his chest.

* * *

He recognises her singing voice - she sings around the cottage and he doesn't think she knows she does it. She sings when she does the dishes, when she makes the beds and he never told her, but her voice is very lovely to him.   
  
Walking towards her parlour, he doesn't recognise the song. There's a gentle quality to it and a shard of melancholy that pierces right through him. Her door is left ajar, showing she is available for questions, for listening. He pushes the door open a little further.   
  
His eyes land on her immediately and he finds that he can't breathe. There's a rushing in his ears that almost drowns out the sound of his wife's voice. His fingers feel numb and he doesn't think he has ever felt this cold before. It's the way she looks at the child in her arms.   
  
The perfect picture of that very thing he can never have. He feels as if he might lose himself with the way she kisses Johnny's hair. The lad isn't tiny anymore, but small enough to fit comfortably against his wife's small frame. Together they look like a painting he once saw, of a Madonna and Child and he wishes he hadn't taken tea earlier as he feels it rising in his throat like bile.   
  
He suppresses the sound that erupts from his throat and Elsie looks up, startled, obviously surprised to see him there.   
  
"Charlie!" It's a quiet call, full of tenderness. "I didn't know you were coming in today."   
  
He puts up his hand, unable to answer her.   
  
"I'm sorry I can't greet you properly right now." She doesn't sound very apologetic though and returns her attention back to the sleeping child in her lap.   
  
"Isn't he beautiful?" she asks and continues on without stopping to listen to his answer. "I never really thought of children being beautiful, only as bonnie, you know, but they are really beautiful when they are like this. Have you seen his eyelashes?"   
  
He shakes his head, swallowing the venom down and stepping closer to his wife.   
  
Elsie looks up at him again and her eyes are so brilliantly blue, he considers it would be quite easy to drown in them. She doesn't let him, though, instead she lowers her voice further and she puts her hand on his cheek.   
  
He leans into her touch and it is a slightly awkward angle, but it steadies him and the rushing subsides and he can hear himself think again.   
  
"Do you remember when Mr Bates asked for Anna's workload to be lessened?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper and the look on her face makes it clear what she is telling him is not supposed to leave her sitting room.   
  
"Hmm," he confirms, still unsure of his own voice.   
  
"There's another one of these coming in a couple of months."   
  
There is nothing in her eyes but happiness. Her voice shines with wonder and delight. He wishes he could feel that way, to _ not _ feel the way he does. To simply rejoice in his friends' happiness, for maybe, now he is no longer Butler, Mr Bates could be a friend, but he doesn't know if he could. If there wouldn't always be a sliver of envy stabbing away at the trust that lies at the root of friendship.   
  
He can't tell Elsie. She wouldn't understand, he thinks he can tell from the easy way she adjusts to Johnny stirring and burrowing his face against her. She is so natural with the little lad.   
  
He remembers the first time she saw him, that fateful night when the old year melted into the new one. Elsie had led the staff into Auld Lang Syne and after clinking their glasses and reassuring him they could make a go of it (and they are making a go of it, they are learning and they are getting better at this being married thing neither of them had counted on five years ago) she had climbed stair after stair. He followed her, not comprehending what she was doing until he stood at the door of Lady Mary's bedroom.   
  
Her light knock, the way she kissed Anna on the cheek, how she shook hands with Mr Bates. He could tell she was holding a breath, how she stood that little bit too straight. But Anna had handed her newborn Johnny, who only hours earlier had been welcomed into the world and she looked as if she had never done anything else than holding little babies to her breast.   
  
He had not felt that scorching pang of loss and regret and jealousy he is feeling now. This acute hurt. He thought the infant sweet, but nothing more. He recalls wiping tears off Elsie's cheek.   
  
Tears he is hoping won't be spilling from his eyes soon.

  
  



	20. Day 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Caroline McKenzie-Dawson says: It's fundamental, babies. Fundamental, but not always joyful. For all of you who were worried Charles was gearing up to having a heart attack, not on day 20. I still have ten days to go.

**Day 20**

* * *

He is breathing funny. He does that sometimes when he thinks she cannot handle his feelings. But she has been handling his feelings for the past thirty years and she has never once been shocked by them. Not even when she learned he wanted her. All of her.   
  
He is looking as if he could keel over at any moment. There are tears in his eyes and his voice is scratchy. If she didn't know him any better, she would say he is thinking about that other way they didn't get to go. But that is a silly notion: Charles Carson is what you would find in the dictionary if you looked up the word 'butler'.    
  
Johnny burrows against her, not ready to wake up but clearly disturbed by the voices of the two adults in the door. She adjusts her position a little and Johnny settles again. He smacks his lips - perfectly pink butterfly wings. She rolls her eyes at herself. What a nonsensical thing to think.   
  
"What brings you here, Charlie?" she asks and she offers him a seat with a quick hand gesture. He pulls back a chair and he sits down gingerly. As if he is afraid the chair won't hold him.   
  
"I went for a walk," he says and he has to clear his throat, once, twice. "I… erm… I went to see a flick -"   
  
"A flick!" Elsie repeats, her eyebrows raised in surprise.   
  
"It's something to do," he says and Elsie watches him, his fingers braided together, his elbows on his knees. His head down.   
  
"Did you enjoy it?" she asks, though she can guess the answer.   
  
"Not particularly. The story was slow and melodramatic. The music drove me to distraction and you would have been amazed by the amount of disgusting cigarette smoke a few men can produce."   
  
"So… you won't be going again," Elsie concludes.   


"No. I don't think so."   
  
"You went on a walk then?" Elsie steers back the conversation to the topic he started.   
  
"Yes. I had lunch with Mr Mason at the pub, but he had to be home on time and I didn't have anything much to do, so I went to see "Sunrise, a tale of two people" or a title to that effect and then I had to get some fresh air and I walked, not really thinking much and I found myself at the Servants' Door."   
  
The look on his face makes Elsie want to hold him, but she can't.    
  
"You are always welcome here, Mr Carson," she says and she give him what she hopes is a loving smile.   
  
"I didn't mean to interrupt, but tea had been laid out and Mr Barrow didn't mind -"   
  
"Why would he mind!? Oh, Charlie. I do love you so," she says. He is such a darling man, a little stifled in his own ideas of propriety and afraid of overstepping, not really knowing the rules because he never thought he would have to give up his vocation.   
  
"Thank God," he murmurs.   
  
"Yes," she agrees, "Thank God. And thank you, for letting me."   
  
He looks up again, first at her, then at Johnny and there is a pain in his face she has never seen before.   
  
"I don't have a lot of work," she tries to distract him, though from what she isn't sure. Was it something in the movie?    
  
"Once this little one wakes, or I am being relieved from playing his crib, I can come home with you."   
  
"Is he very heavy?" he asks and Elsie nods.   
  
"Not that heavy, but once they fall asleep it does become a little cumbersome after a while."   
  
He doesn't say anything and she watches doubt and decisions flit over his face until he gets up, stands before her and lifts Johnny from her lap. She is almost immediately covered in gooseflesh, but she can breathe again and that is absolutely lovely.   
  
Johnny fusses a little, but doesn't wake. Charles just stands there, uncertain of the next step and Elsie scoots forward on the seat of the chair and leaves it, allowing her husband to sit down in it. The blanket Johnny is wrapped in has come loose a little, but it doesn't leave the child uncovered and she wishes she had a camera so she could capture this moment:   
  
Charlie Carson in his wife's sitting room, allowing the young child of a friend to sleep in his arms.

* * *

One day she will kill him and it may be today. As she sits there, in the fading light, looking pretty and perfect with the toddler in her lap. She doesn't know she is doing it, but she kisses his hair and rocks from side to side slightly when she can feel Johnny stir.    
  
He can feel all of himself breaking and falling around him and he answers her automatically, as if there's nothing out of the ordinary and that is what they have always had: belonging and safety. She tells him the tyke is heavy for her and he isn't surprised: she is the Housekeeper and as such she does not carry around silver tea trays the way footmen do. The way a Butler does and he knows he should rescue her. So he lifts the boy off of her without considering the consequences of that and he stands in her room, a little boy pressed against him. So vulnerable and trusting in slumber and he is a little alarmed because he isn't very used to holding babies, only held Lady Mary a few times and Miss Sybbie once.    
  
When she had so sweetly looked upon him and the child and said something endearing and he couldn't bare it then either, almost barking at her in his inability to process it: her smile, Miss Sybbie, the loss of Lady Sybil. He remembers vividly Elsie's confusion at his words. Her pain.   
  
He still doesn't understand why he used to have outbursts like that. Always only when with her. But now she guides him to the chair she was sitting in and he slowly sinks down, noting his knees handling it all fine - possibly because he is keeping in shape best way he can - and he takes her place.   
  
She leans over and kisses him, softly softly, god her lips are plump and supple and everything you could ever wish for your wife's lips to be. Her hand is on Johnny's blonde mop of hair and if only they could be like this a little longer - half an hour, half a day. If they could be like this again and Charles only barely holds it together.    
  
If Elsie says anything kind to him now, he won't be able to keep his composure.

She doesn’t. She just looks at him, at Johnny and she wipes his hair off his forehead and her door swings open, like it so often does and there is Mr Barrow, staring at them. 

Charles braces himself for the scathing remark that is to come. Words about playing house. About the pair of them being much too old for this kind of thing. 

“Mrs Hughes, the mail just came. there’s the electricity bill and a note from Mr Duncan about your order last week,” Mr Barrow says, his voice even and nonchalant. Exactly as Charles remembers him: always more respectful to Elsie than to Charles himself. 

“Thank you, Mr Barrow. You can put them on the table and I’ll take a look at them in a minute.”

Mr Barrow places the envelopes on the table, next to an empty teacup.

“Are you alright Mr Carson?” he asks and Charles frowns. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He used to snap at Thomas. Be harder on him than any of the other footmen.. Because he was insolent, yes and maybe even because he wasn’t quite a man (though Thomas did go to war and he came back wounded, so Charles knows he isn’t right about calling it that, but he doesn’t know how else to put it, because other words are worse). Mostly because he saw something in Thomas. A talent you need if you’re to do well in service, and here they are, in this strange situation Charles is buckling under and he is already being asked if he is alright, which means Elsie has seen it, because that’s what Mr Barrow has going for him, besides the training Charles has given him:

The power of observation and the ability to think on his feet. 

Yes, Charles used to snap, but there is a sleeping child in his arms and he is trying to hold it together and not embarrass his wife, so the words form that question and it sounds like one. 

Mr Barrow shrugs, apparently a little unsettled at the scene and Charles doesn’t blame him.   
  
"I'll leave you to it, then," Mr Barrow gives them a last, quite meaningful, look and leaves. He doesn't close the door behind him and Charles can hear the sounds of the Servants' Hall.    
  
It's pacifying him a little: those familiar voices and sitting in Elsie's parlour with her standing so close and smiling at him. There's a tenderness in her eyes and she has her hand on her chest, just over her heart and he knows now that she knows and it's a relief of sorts.   
  
"We'll go home in a bit," she says. "He'll probably wake up soon. We've jostled him about so much."    
  
"Alright."   
  
"I'll make you a nice cup of tea, back at the cottage."   
  
Tea. Because she is Elsie Hughes and tea always makes things better and she will bustle about their kitchen, putting the kettle on and spooning tea from the tin into the pot and all of those things he has watched her do a hundred times.   
  
She will steady him, as she always does. Knowing what he needs more than he knows it himself. He once asked her if she thought him very ridiculous and she practically rolled her eyes at him, telling him he raised the standard of the house. He had been very soothed with that remark.   
  
He doubts there will be anything she can say that will soothe him today.   
  
  


  
  



	21. Day 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On day 21 I wrote some smut. M-rated or E-rated: I have no idea what the difference is. It probably depends on where you post. Nothing very special here, though. The Carsons haven't come far enough for that yet.

**Day 21 **

She holds his hand as they walk back to the cottage. Normally she has her hand in the crook of his arm, but it's important he can feel her skin. That she can feel his. To be intimate in that way, to feel close, because she finally gets it now. How he told her he wanted something other men his age have and he told her she didn't understand when she said he would make new friends.   
  
"What did Mr Mason say that made you go to the cinema?" she asks.   
  
"It was something about Daisy and Andrew," he says and he looks straight ahead, as if there is something in the distance he can see but she can't. They are walking fast, much faster than Elsie normally walks.   
  
"What did he say about them?"   
  
"That he wants to marry Mrs Patmore."    
  
Elsie smiles, but presses on: "And that is what made you run? Our friend possibly experiencing wedded bliss sometime soon?"   
  
"Not exactly."   
  
Like getting water from a stone. Charles can be so obtuse when he wants to be. By now she is almost jogging alongside him: the cottage is in view, only a hundred yard or so and his grip is so tight, it's starting to hurt.   
  
"What did he say, Charlie?" she tries again and his mouth is tight when he answers her, his words staccato and almost too full of emotion.   
  
"That it will be nice for Daisy when she has Mrs Patmore there at the farm when the babies start coming. That he doesn't mind the crying of a baby, but that he won't change one and isn't that too ridiculous to hear a pig farmer say - won't a pig pen stink a hundred times as bad as a nappy - and he was so casual about it, so irreverent…" his voice trails off, but he walks on and she is almost running next to him.   
  
"Charlie, slow down!" she says, but he doesn't listen. He drags her to the cottage and he yanks open the door. He is panting and he pushes her against the wall in the hall, kissing her. Kissing her so hard, searingly, his left hand slipping between the wall and her and landing on her bum. Palming it, squeezing. Marking.   
  
His hat falls on the floor and the door is still open and she barely knows what is going on. Her blood is coursing through her, the by now almost familiar feeling of want pulsing between her legs. It's uncomfortable with her head at an odd angle so he can devour her without her hat getting in the way. The cold of the bricks in her back and how hard they are, such a contrast with Charles who is warm and soft.    
  
He lets go of her suddenly and she slumps against the wall.   
  
"Upstairs," he says - orders really - and she pulls the pin from her hat, puts it back through the felt and follows him. She understands now, of course she does. She did from the moment he entered her parlour and saw her there with Johnny. Those unshed tears, the way he almost didn't breathe. Had she not been so preoccupied with herself - her own battle with a different loneliness, the not quite belonging here and not quite at the House, her eyesight and the need for reading glasses, her body clicking and creaking and how much she wanted her husband to touch her, to feel her; to  _ know _ her - she would have recognised it all long before today.   
  
He doesn't leave her time to think, to reflect on what's gone on in her parlour, for he takes her hand again, practically dragging her into their bedroom and kneeling before her. His trembling hand fidgeting with the buckle of her shoe and she wants to bend over, help him, but he swats away her hand.   
  
Once he manages the first he undoes the second buckle and he helps her out of her shoes. He is still on his knees and his hands wrap around her calf, her knee and upwards upwards and she shivers until he rests his head against her. His forehead on her belly, her skirts bunched up as he slides his hands from her thighs around her, wrapping all the way around.   
  
He is breathing so hard and she isn't sure if it's passion or if he is crying.   
  
"Charlie?"   
  
His voice is muffled by her clothes when he says 'yes'.   
  
"Come here, my man," she coaxes him and he stands up, towering over her until she raises herself up on her toes and he closes the distance between them. He kisses her, sweetly, softly, until she starts undoing the buttons of his waistcoat.   
  
"What are you doing?" he asks, breathlessly.   
  
"I'm taking off your clothes," she answers.   
  
"Oh. You… you don't mind… I mean, will you…"    
  
She doesn't think he knows what he needs from her, but she does. Of course she does. Since that morning he first truly claimed her, she has started to learn about the things that make him beg and the things that ease his pain.   
  
Her hands are cold and the fingers of her right hand are sore from where he squeezed them too hard on their way back, but she relieves him of his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt. She slides her palm over him before undoing his flies and he moans brokenly. She points at his shoes and he hurriedly toes them off and then he makes quick work of his socks. She pushes down his trousers and he is left in his vest and pants, his chest moving as he rapidly inhales and barely exhales.    
  
She pushes him towards the bed and forces him backwards so he lies on their bed. The bedspread stretches so tightly it barely wrinkles with the impact and Elsie gathers her skirts and mounts her husband, letting her dress fall over her legs, obscuring them from sight.    
  
Oh, she knows she might look proper as she is fully dressed and she is somewhat uncomfortable, but not restrictively so and she pushes herself down on him, his hard length covered by the warn cotton of his pants and she can feel the moisture seeping from her onto it through the parting in her knickers. The few advantages of such an old-fashioned garment.    
  
Elsie rubs herself over her husband and he moans as she picks up speed. Her hair is coming undone and she helps it along, pulling the pins. She shakes it out, feels the weight lifted and she comes down a little rougher on her husband who makes a gurgling noise she hasn't heard him make yet.   
  
He is fine. He is looking up at her, the bedspread held so crampedly his knuckles are white. Elsie reaches under her skirts and lifts herself off Charles - but only a bit, only enough to free him and then she sinks down on him again, taking him into her body and she exhales loudly, the sound echoing against the empty walls of the room.   
  
Her hands deftly undo the hooks and eyes of her dress and she takes it off while she rides him, almost painfully slowly, not touching upon that part of her that makes her forget. She can hear her dress fall on the floor and Charles is looking at her so intently it almost pains her. She leans forward, letting out a quivering sound and she kisses him. His arms close around her and she stills, almost unable to breathe, her corset pressing too hard against her breastbone, restricting her lungs from expanding.   
  
Charles is crying, but it's good, it's good to let it out, to not let it consume you, whatever it may be and she knows what it is and she struggles free so she can rid herself of that blessed corset but her fingers aren't cooperating, the corset cover and slip together an impenetrable fortress, but she doesn't want to lose their connection, so she moves again and she is surprised that he is still so hard inside of her and that it is flowing so easily.   
  
"Help me," she whispers and there's a gleam in his eye and his large hands take the top hem of the corset cover and…

he rips them apart. Buttons come flying; the garment is irreparably damaged and he laughs, a deep laugh and as he moves with those shocks of laughter, he hits that spot that never fails to make her gasp.   
  
She is dishevelled on top of him, in the dwindling daylight and he tenderly runs his hands up and down her legs, getting caught in her stocking. Elsie pulls the cover and slip over her head and undoes the clasps that hold those stockings up - her fingers still clumsy. Almost there, almost free and she shouts at nobody in particular:   
  
"This damned thing!"    
  
Which makes Charlie chuckle again and he helps her, a little more carefully this time and dear god how good it is to finally breathe properly again. Elsie tries a little bounce upon her husband's legs and his eyes glaze over, so she tries again, but she hadn't counted on what he might enjoy and before she knows it, his hands are on her hips and she finds herself lifted off him and next to him. She loses her balance and falls, her face down on the bedspread.   
  
One steady hand and a trembling one run over her shoulders and fingers slip under the shoulder strap of her chemise for a second or two before running lower and lower. He palms her bum, firmly, digging in his fingers, his thumbs and it's thrilling and delicious.   
  
How many things haven't they tried yet? she wonders. Will they learn all there is to know about this particular facet of married life?   
  
His lips are at the base of her neck, on the junction between neck and shoulder. On her spine and on the chemise, lower and lower and she stiffens when she feels his lips on her left bum cheek, through the parting of her knickers. He is still kneading her other cheek and she loves how it feels, but it's… a little… peculiar, not quite wrong, but -    
  
Forbidden.   
  
Apparently Charlie doesn't mind about any of that today and he pushes her up on the bed a little more and parts her legs, manipulating her this way and that before slipping his fingers between her legs and touching her in this marvelous way they discovered makes her soar in ways she never knew existed before that day they finally started talking.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



	22. Day 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 22 is where we continue the quite explicit smut from yesterday. And they break their hearts - and ours. Thank you, @tobeconquered for your insightful help with this day/chapter/thing

**Day 22**

He removes his fingers and leaves her lying there, oddly bereft for a few moments and she can feel him fuss behind her. When she finally (it may have been ten seconds or three minutes, she doesn't know, has lost all sense of time) tries to turn around to see what Charles is doing, she is surprised by a slap on her bum, followed by open-mouthed kisses that make her shiver as the cold air hits the damp little spots.  
  
His hands leave her bottom and tickle down the back of her thighs to the back of her knees where he grabs her and pushes them up, spreading her in a way she hasn't been before and she holds her breath, not knowing what to expect.

  
Her shoulders are being pushed into the mattress and her underwear is straining at the unusual shape her body is being moved into - lovingly, sweetly, but urgently, too. And then he is between her legs and he enters her with a groan. She is shocked and peculiarly delighted. She can't see him, but she feels him and he doesn't dawdle. He slams into her and he is breathing loudly and she can barely catch herself on her shoulder, so she pushes herself up on her elbows.  
  
Elsie can hear herself swear, the profanity lingering around them, when the angle of Charles's thrusts changes. God, it feels nice and she is getting up higher, her hands on the bedspread, clawing at it as she calls out again and again, Charles taking her, bruising her hip with a tight grip that she loves. He takes the hem of her chemise and draws her backwards, a little more upwards.  
  


"Elsie… Elsie…" he almost chants and to be worshipped like that, is everything she wanted from this, from this thing she was so afraid of, but is turning out to be one of the best things in her life. She is climbing, soaring, happy. 

  
Her throat is burning with her heavy breathing and her crying out and she can barely keep upright anymore when Charlie's movements become irregular and he spills himself inside of her with a roar and he lets go of her hip. He falls on the bed and Elsie slides down next to him, her wrists are painful from the impact of his thrusts. Her knickers finally fall from her hips, the ties having come undone; her chemise is twisted around her body. She is feeling tired and a little bruised and somewhat dissatisfied, but maybe they can… well. Later. When they have calmed down somewhat.

* * *

"Did I hurt you?"  
  
"No."  
  
He is ashamed of himself. Not of the way she undressed him and had her way with him, no. That was thrilling and delightful and it took care of something he can't name but that has been brewing inside of him for many weeks now. But not all of his discomfort has been eased and that is why is is worried now.  
  
He is positive you are not supposed to treat your wife the way he did just now. Forgetting himself completely, using her, listening to her moans and cries. Elsie taking the name of the Lord the way she did urging him on and he lost himself in her. Nothing in life feels as good as his wife under him and around him; nothing sounds as good as his name on her lips. He had never imagined it could be like this: his fingers digging into the softness of her hips and bottom; loving her so much he explodes, soiling her, but claiming her, marking her. His. His wife. His lover. His everything.  
  
"What brought this on, Charlie?" she asks and she is playing with a strand of her hair. She is looking more beautiful than he has ever seen her. Not even on their wedding day did she glow like she does now.  
  
"You did," he says before he can think his answer through and she rubs her head against his upper arm. They are under the covers, finally naked. Her underclothes are ruined, his are on the floor.  
  
"What can an old woman like me do to inspire such vigour?"  
  
"You are… very beautiful, Elsie. You could be a Millais painting."  
  
He ignores her putting herself down, compliments her in a way he knows she will understand. She blushes and she is so enchanting, with the sheet wrapped around her, her shoulders bare. She leans against him, lies her head against his arm.  
  
"You are so much more than a man like me deserves," he picks up his train of thought and Elsie snorts a bit at his words. She has done that before, but never in this self-deprecating way that makes him stare at her, wishing she would believe how appealing she is to him.  
  
"Charlie?" she rouses him from his delightful - though short - daydream.  
  
"Yes, Elspeth?"  
  
"I'm sorry you can't have what other men have." He can barely make out the words she speaks so softly.  
  
"I'm sorry I can't do that for you," she extends and God in heaven why doesn't she stop, why does she keep on talking, why does she have to just come out with it, now he doesn't have anything to hide behind. No words to dispute what she is implying.  
  
"We only missed the deadline by some thirty years," she jokes, but her voice is shaking.

He frowns, doesn’t really understand what she means, but she doesn’t give him time to ask. 

“Charlie… maybe… I mean… this is important to you. To have a baby… there are younger women out there… who could and who are willing,” she stammers, tears streaming down her face and he is shocked, blown away by what she is offering. 

“What do you mean? What are you saying?” His voice, normally so deep and smooth, sounds shrill.

Elsie has pulled up her knees and she has wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to comfort herself. She looks small and all he wants to do is protect her and love her. To be a good husband to her, one she can feel safe with and he doubts making her cry is making her proud of him.  
  
She is sobbing and he has never seen her sob before. Not Mrs Hughes. He is so distressed by it, he doesn't know what to do next, but he pulls her close and she wraps herself around him and he holds her. Tightly.

* * *

This often happens after they have been intimate; she can feel emotion erupting from her chest and most of the time she can keep it in, but not today, not with this. So she cries while she offers to set him free, to allow him the option of having that child he seems to crave so much. Charles may be going on seventy, he is still considered a catch and she knows why: he is tall and handsome, with that full head of hair and he has worked hard all his life. He is a man of independent means. Especially if he doesn't have Elsie and Becky dependent on him.  
  
Her heart is breaking, old insecurities and regrets she buried long ago are resurfacing. She loves Charles, she loves him so much, but she isn't what he needs. 

Maybe she should have seen it coming, but she doesn’t see how. What were the signs she ought to have seen? He was always lovely with the bairns: soft and gently funny. A peppermint to spare in a pocket and a pair of strong arms to lift and hold. 

That’s not enough to see yourself as a parent. Is it? She doesn’t know. Children follow when a young - youngish, this isn’t rural Scotland where you marry young and are ready to give birth to your third when you’re only nineteen, if you live at all - couple marries. It’s the order of things, when things go right. 

She spares a fleeting thought for Ethel, for Lady Edith.

Elsie has been spared that kind of hardship, but now she is naked between the sheets of her marriage bed and she is still not _ right _. All her life she has been careful, focused, ambitious and look where it’s gotten her:

Being comforted by a man she has given her life to, but who wants the one thing from her she can’t give him. 

Elsie is so frustrated and so hurt and why do the people she loves the most always want the things from her she doesn’t have to spare?  
  
Her parents who wanted her to marry a second son so they would have someone to help at the farm. Someone to leave it to when the day came.  
  
The day went. The farm was sold and the meagre proceeds were put towards Becky's care.  
  
Becky had wanted Elsie to be with her and she understood, Elsie really did. There is safety and comfort in being with the one person you have known since you were born. To whom you were made to be an equal. But Elsie couldn't look after her sister without living in such poverty it would have ended them in the workhouse.  
  
Becky wouldn't be living in her 'home' and Elsie wouldn't be living here, in a cottage, with a husband who loves her (she keeps telling herself that he loves her and that it isn't because of a lack of love, just a lack of… time), no. Both Elsie and Becky would be lying in unmarked graves behind those red brick buildings that work people to the bone and strip them from all the things that make them human and worthy of love, compassion and autonomy.  
  
"Elsie, are you saying you want out? Of this marriage, I mean?"  
  
She cannot bear to look at him and she shrugs, wiping away her tears. "Isn't that what you want?"

  
  



	23. Day 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello, who knew I did melodramatic angst? Not me. But yeah. Here it is. They are trying; really. They are.

**Day 23 **

"It's just about the very last thing I want." He is practically shouting.  
  
"But… Charlie… if you want it so badly…"   
  
"With you!" he thunders and Elsie jumps and digs her nails into his shoulder with the shock of the volume suddenly filling the room. He pulls away her hand and squirms out from under her. He opens the blankets and storms into the _ en suite _ and slams the door closed.   
  
Elsie's heart is pounding and her hands are like ice. The sheets have come away from their perfect corners and it's gone dark outside. Inside the chair and wardrobe cast eerie shadows on the now dark-grey walls.   
  
She struggles away from the blankets and feels the thing Charles has left behind drip down the inside of her thighs. She looks around for her robe and finds it somehow comforting to find it hanging from the hook next to the bathroom door. Where it should be.   
  
It's good when material things don't change when things are falling apart. 

Elsie takes a steadying breath and knocks softly on the door. "Charles? Charles? When you are done, might I use the bathroom? I… erm… I need to… erm… tidy myself up a bit."  
  
The floor is cold. She can feel a draft rush over her feet as it weasels its way under the door. All she can hear is the water running.   
  
"Charles, please, may I come in? I'm…"   
  
Dirty? No. It's not dirty, per se. "Uncomfortable!"   
  
The door swings open so fast, it almost hits Elsie and Charles is standing there, just over the threshold.   
  
"I'm sorry I shouted," he says.   
  
"It's alright."   
  
"You… erm… you can go in."   
  
She slips passed him and closes the door.

* * *

When she returns, he isn't in their bedroom and she wraps her robe tightly around her. The stairs are cold and dark, but she is relieved to see Charles making tea in the kitchen. He is wearing his robe as well. It's not tied and she is a little glad to see he is wearing his shorts. While she is starting to get used to seeing all parts of him, that specific part is still… strange.  
  
He moves around the kitchen easily, getting mugs from the cupboard and popping the lid from the tin where she keeps the tea. He is at home and while he is upset - goodness, he is so upset, his hand is trembling terribly, she can see it travel all the way up to his elbow - there is an ease about him that must come from being where you ought to be. From being home.   
  
She recognises it from the way he used to move around his pantry.   
  
And her parlour.   
  
Elsie sits down on her chair by the table and waits for her husband to finish making a much-needed cup of tea.   
  
He puts a mug in front of her and he spills some; he is shaking, as much as he did before he retired. It feels as if it is her fault. That she is to blame for the amount of stress he is feeling. He turns and takes the tea towel. He fusses around her, trying to mop up the wet blotches on the table. Elsie puts her hand over his and takes over, making quick work of it.   
  
She is used to it. Especially the first few weeks of retirement were filled with spills, dropped items and indeed some serious swearing, she didn't know Charles was capable of. She didn't think it thrilling - unlike the few well chosen swears he uses when he takes her - sometimes lovingly, sometimes wild. It adds something then; she loves knowing that she drives him to such expletives, that she has such power over him.   
  
Charles is holding his mug in both hands and lets the steam waft up his face. He must be as cold as she is. The cottage isn't made for traipsing around barefooted and summer robe clad. What a thought - knowing she is nude underneath her robe…   
  
Charles interrupts her with a question that crudely brings her back to the here and now:

"Have you never wanted a child of your own?" He is looking at her through the steam. She can tell his eyes are glistening.

She wraps her hand around her mug and answers thoughtfully: "I would have married Joe the first time he asked me if I had wanted children."  
  
Elsie couldn't see herself as Joe's wife. She had hopes for a better future. A more secure one. A future in which she had a _ say _ in what happened to her. .

She can tell he is shocked by her answer and with that she knows there will be more questions coming. 

"Not even with me, I mean?"   
  
She smiles a little at that. 

"No, because you and I were not like that when I could still… you know… have them… and I’ve reconciled myself with the fact that will never be someone’s mother or grandmother. On the other side of that medal, I have always been fairly pleased I didn’t die in childbirth or haven't had to lose a child, because I truly don't think anyone could ever get over that."

He gasps and she runs the back of her fingers over his cheek. There's a little stubble coming in and he is having such a hard time trying to wrap his head around what she is saying.

"Did you think it would all be warm milk and porcelain skin and little dreams come true?"  
  
"I don't know…" He looks at her so imploringly, as if she knows what he ought to say, but she sips her tea, gives him time to organize his thoughts.   
  
"I should have asked you to marry me thirty years ago," he finally says.   
  
"But you didn't love me then. And if you are truly honest with yourself: what would we have done? We wouldn't have had what Anna and Mr Bates have. Lady Grantham is very kind for allowing Johnny in the nursery and of course times have changed. But can you see old Lady Grantham giving us permission to stay on and be married? Raise a family?"   
  
Charles shrugs and shakes his head slowly.   
  
"Can you see yourself as anything else besides a Butler, my man? Because I can't."   
  
"You asked me once before," he says slowly and she smiles. She remembers it well, her words about going another way. She even recalls which dress she was wearing. How she used to do her hair.   
  
"I did."   
  
"I couldn't then. See myself as anything but a Footman, a Butler." He sighs. "I can't now. I just…" He takes a big gulp of tea and another one. Elsie sips hers more delicately.   
  
"I wish I had known before."   
  
Elsie carefully puts her mug down. "Known what?"   
  
"That I loved you so."   
  
She stands up abruptly, the chair legs scraping over the tiles, making a screeching sound and walks around the table, swiftly and settles herself on Charles's lap. She is starting to understand what it is that is making Charles feel the way he does.   
  
He wraps his arms around her and she is still so small she can put her head on his shoulder. He is cold, she can feel it through her robe. She rubs his arm.   
  
"You do know I love you, too, don't you?"   
  
"Yes.” He pauses a few seconds before continuing: "I just don't understand why… why you cried when you held Johnny Bates that first time, but that you wouldn't want to have my ba-" He breaks off, coughs, but the words are out there, even if incomplete and he is flustered by it, by his inability to keep it all in and Elsie loves him - loves him so completely, she never thought it was possible.   
  
"I'm very proud and so happy to be your wife, Charlie," she says. "And I need you to understand that I cried over Johnny because I was so relieved both he and Anna were alright. We had a couple of glasses of wine that night, if you remember…" She kisses him softly - the way they did that life-altering New Year's.   
  
"And I never said I wouldn't. I can't. We are not young - what would we do with a baby? By the time it goes to school, I will be seventy."

She has to catch her breath at that. Seventy. She hopes he will not make her go on; it's not easy raking up things she has learned to live with.   
  
"Elsie… I don't know… It's just…"   
  
He is trying to say what he means and she lies her head against his shoulder. She can feel her robe slip, but she doesn't catch it. Allows it to slide down, revealing the top of her breast. She wonders if he can see how cold she is from the way her skin is reacting.   
  
"It's what comes next. Isn't it?"   
  
"What comes next?" She knows, of course she does. But she has learned that it's not enough to assume things, but that thoughts need to be spoken to be heard. Besides, she may be wrong - that is the difficult thing about assumptions. They are not facts.   
  
"When two people respect one another and then love. When they marry. It's the next step - to start a family." He rubs his hand over her hip, making the robe slide even further down and she can't help herself but quickly grab it before she is fully exposed.   
  
"Start a family," she repeats and she sits up, a little suddenly. Charles's reaction is to tighten his grip on her and it is a delicious, safe feeling she has only known since she married him. It gives her the confidence to tell him what she hopes can be true:  
  
"We have each other. And you love me and I love you. Can't that be enough?"   
  
Charles looks at her, that little bit of sadness in his eyes that she has noticed many times the past few weeks.   
  
"It should be. I know."   
  
Elsie touches his cheek again. "Don't you think we can be happy together, just the two of us?"   
  
But he breaks into her sentence: "I don't know. I don't. All I know is that Lord Grantham has something special… Mr Mason will - in a few years. And I… I don't. I never will."   
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



	24. Day 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is day 24 and I have never been happier this is a WIP because today's efforts will need some very serious, heavy editing. Elsie especially decided she did not want to co-operate and she was not going to remain remotely in character. So take this with a grain of salt and rest assured that tomorrow's offerings will probably be better

**Day 24**

It hurts. To be told that you aren’t enough. That this new thing they are exploring together - fingertips and tongues, fluttering eyelids and hands in hair - doesn’t mean that much to him. Or is she reading too much into things? Even if she does, the feeling remains: being rejected because it’s indulgent instead of productive. 

She pulls away from her husband. Putting a little distance between them. An inch. A nautical mile. A lightyear. 

“If I can never be enough…” she starts, but the words catch in her throat. 

It’s a very raw pain - like scraping your knee on a dirt road. Like burning your finger on your electric toaster. Because it is about something she reconciled herself with. Because she never thought she would be a mother, so she cared for her charges where she could and where they let them. Her mind turns to Tom in the Library. That bright red sofa amplifying his perceived sin. Elsie on the footstool in front of him. Finding the right words. Comforting. The way she does. 

Ethel in that dingy, humid room trying to make ends meet and caring for her child. Elsie holding the little lad as if she was used to it and bringing the pitiful pair whatever she could.

Gwen - goodness, how very long ago - with the typewriter. Elsie hadn’t fully understood then, but she does now. See a chance. Grab it. Chase it. Fight for it. 

She could have done it: taken a chance. If life had shown her a different path. A different kind of man sweeping her off her feet, before she went to Downton. A life of laughter, fighting, making up and loving recklessly with great abandon. Little boys and girls to raise because of that shared love. 

The natural way of things*. 

Love. Marriage. 

Making a home. 

Making a baby.

* * *

He doesn't understand why she slides away from him so suddenly. What did he say? 

He needs her, to be with her, to be close to her. Because he loves her. He cannot imagine his life without her. Her dry wit, her eyes rolling at his expense. The cottage is their home, but only if she is there to share it with him. He loves her. He loves her beyond words. Beyond measure. She is what makes life worth living. 

Not endless corridors and red carpets. Not the correct way to address a viscount, nor the perfect wines to be paired with sublimely prepared food. 

The freckles on her shoulder, the way she turns her head to look at him when he asks her something. Knowing she doesn’t spend a penny on herself until she absolutely has to. 

Does she not know how deeply, completely, all-consumely he loves her?

She can’t - she wouldn’t be wiping her eyes if she knew.

“You are enough. You are… you are all I ever wanted.”

“Alice,” she says and it slashes him, the way she spits out the name of the girl he used to think he loved. 

“Now I get why you held onto your memories of her so tightly. You could have had babies with her. She was useful to you. Unlike me. Just a barren husk of a woman who can scarcely be used to relieve yourself.”

He is perplexed by her words. Vulgar and mean and it reminds her of that time she spat at him that he (and ‘the blessed Lady Mary’) would come down from their cloud. He’d felt as if he’d been slashed when she said it. He feels it again now, He is almost surprised there isn't a pool of blood widening underneath him.   
  
He doesn't know how to respond to her poisonous words. His hand taps against his thigh and he wishes he could still it. That he wouldn't always be given away so by that damned tremor. He wishes he could blame it for everything that is going wrong, but it isn't. It is just…

How did they end up here? After the way they were  _ together _ earlier, would it not bring peace? He doesn’t know what to say. He never saw Elsie as an empty husk and he just wants her to be happy. But he is making her miserable and she is hurting him back with words that come quickly because she is so much quicker than he is. He always needs time to gather his thoughts and examine his feelings before he can say anything. 

“Is that why you didn’t reach for me? Wouldn’t let me see you?” he asks, trying to make sense of it all: their love, their marriage. The newfound joy they have been discovering together.

“What?” 

He has taken her off guard; there are blushes high in her cheeks and her hand flies to her chest, just between the panels of her dressing gown. 

“When we first got wed and we…” he falters. Every word for it seems wrong. He coughs and tries to be brave, to look her in the eye and just say it, so he stumbles on, not wanting her to think weak. 

“Knew one another that way. I told Mrs Patmore I wanted to be with you, but there was never a response and we married. We left For Scarborough…”

He thinks back to their first night. When they had succumbed to exhaustion, almost too tired to even kiss the other goodnight. Then waking up early - as always - and finding Elsie curled up beside him. She looked so small and he was so afraid to hurt her. Which he knew would happen, because that always happens, as far as he had heard from whispered stories he heard long ago. 

When she woke, she smiles at him and his heart jumped. To be loved by someone like Elsie… what a privilege. A miracle. She had padded to the bathroom, not bothering with a robe and returned with a freshly scrubbed face and a very shy smile. 

They had tried it that evening, the image of her figure obscured by her nightgown in his mind. To come together as man and wife. Fumbling, their lack of experience on display for the other. Her softness, the feeling of her skin, curves, everything, had made him giddy and he kept apologising. 

He liked it. 

As much as he had hoped. Elsie was indeed hurt and she frowned a lot during it as far as he could tell in the dark room. 

Back at the cottage he only sometimes reached for her. They were tired, no longer young. Twelve to sixteen hour workdays don’t help much in the bedroom. He often fell asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow. After retirement, he didn’t want to bother her. She was still working hard and while things between them got better and he wanted her to feel nice, he never knew how to broach the subject. He tried to recreate the movements that made her whimper and made her breathe harder - a kind of music he never knew existed. 

He wanted to know what she looked like underneath that nightgown. To feel the crease where her legs met her bottom. He wanted to kiss her in places he knew for certain she had never been kissed. But he didn't know how. Tried to be sensitive to how she moved under him.   
  
Always in the dark.   
  
"When we tried to come together… was that…" he swallows, not knowing how to go on while she looks at him with cold eyes.   
  
"Was that what you thought? That it was useless?"   
  
He watches his wife intently.   
  
She shakes her head. "No. Not really. I mean… it's always been something that would ultimately be productive - or it would be if you are young. For us it is mere indulgence."   
  
"Was it not you who said we could afford to live a little?"   
  
He is glad to see she relaxes.   
  
"I love you," he says and he hopes she can tell he is earnest, that he can't say it plainer than that. "I love you and I want to be with you. I think you are more than a man could wish for. I am just…"   
  
"You are just; what?"   
  
"I want to love you. I want to show you how much and I want you to feel good when I do. I hope that you will let me and that it has nothing to do with..." he trails off and looks at Elsie.   
  
She is blushing very prettily. Her anger has subsided some and it makes him brave.   
  
"Lord Grantham will be remembered by his grandchildren and they will speak lovingly of their Donk who was kind and jolly. Daisy's children will speak the same of Mr Mason and how they were told the great legends of Yorkshire and the War of the Roses. Johnny will tell his children about Mr Bates and how he fought to be able to love Anna and that will be a heroic tale."   
  
He pauses, waits for Elsie to say something, but she doesn't, so he carries on: "Butlers are forgotten. I feel as if I already am."

* * *

It has all come together - here on the sofa in their front room. Her inability to express what she needed from her husband to make their… she doesn't know a perfect term for it, just knows that it's them fitting together and not being able to get any closer - feel nice. His sudden longing for a child, thirty-five years too late. Their shared past and the way they have been trying to move forward.    
  
She feels drained. To have it all bare before her on a November afternoon when twilight is filling the air. Her anger has left and she reassures Charles:   
  
"Mr Carson, you will be remembered for many years to come. To Lady Mary you will always be that gentle giant who would protect her where her own father could not. Mr Barrow will remember you with every decision he makes - he will always hear your voice telling him how to do things. Miss Sybbie will remember the King and Queen came to stay and how it was you who made the visit a success."   
  
She turns a little, her knee touching Charles's. It's not enough, those few words, but it's a start. They can talk about it later.   
  
"About the other thing…" She takes Charles's hand in hers, pulling him up with her as she stands and she guides him to the door, down the hall and back up the stairs.

* * *

* It's 1927 I keep repeating to myself    
  
  


  
  



	25. Day 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need this fic to lighten up. So here goes nothing… Yes, I agree today's offering is choppy. I am trying folks. I am trying. At least it’s smutty. It may be a bit graphic but I will fix that in editing. 

**Day 25**

"You won't be forgotten," she says and she runs her hand over his chest.  
  
"They already have. Mr Barrow was nice to me," he says, making a kindness significant.   
  
"Can you imagine that," she teases.   
  
"Hmm." Charles grumps.   
  
"He is not a bad man, Charlie. You have seen it yourself. You said it yourself!" She lies her head on his shoulder. She is still wearing her robe, having gotten into bed to warm up. Her feet are still very cold. Her toes ache.   
  
"What did I say?" he is genuinely surprised.   
  
"That nobody ever could accuse him of being stupid. And that you trained him. You saw the change in him and it's because of you he is the Butler now. I think he is grateful. He won't forget you. Andy won't - he has learned so much from you. Daisy won't forget you. Have you not given her away when she married William?"   
  
He wraps his arm around her and kisses her hair. "If you put it like that…"   
  
"Is Mrs Patmore not your friend? She will visit and we will visit her."   
  
She can already see it. Sunday lunch at the farm with Mr Mason and Beryl. With Daisy and Andy and all of them having a jolly time. Delicious food and maybe a bottle of wine shared between friends. In time there might be a little one for all of them to spoil.   
  
"Family is what you make it, Mr Carson," she says and she turns her head so she can kiss his cheek.

* * *

When she wakes it's the middle of the night. Charles is breathing peacefully and Elsie tries to free herself from the robe that is wrapped around her and bunched up painfully under her hip without waking him.  
  
She can hear the rain falling and the wind in the trees. November has always been hard and this year it has been especially difficult, but at least they have said some of the things that needed to be said for the air to be clear between them.   
  
Nobody ever said that marriage is easy.   
  
She twists and pulls the sash of her robe from under her so she can finally sit up and get out of the bed to take it off.   
  
Without moving the blankets, she slides out of the bed and lets the robe slide down her arms and places it at the foot of the bed. Her body reacts strongly to the cold room: her muscles tighten, her skin raises. She is reminded of the icy attics of her first position. She shared a bed with another maid then and it was strange to be on her own once she left for a better place.   
  
Elsie contemplates going over to the [ladenkast] to get her underwear, but why bother: it's only her husband in that bed and it's very early and if she can catch a few more winks that is more important than propriety.   
  
Isn't it?   
  
So she slips back between the covers that held her body heat and she relaxes against the mattress. The sheet almost perfectly molds against her shape, gaping only on her side. The space between Elsie and her husband. A space that ought to be filled and so she does.   
  
Inch by inch* she wriggles closer to Charles and finally her arm is lined up with his back and turns slowly. A small spoon against a big spoon, not fitting right, but warm and close. She presses a kiss against his bare shoulder.   
  
"Are you alright?"   
  
"God! Charles! You made me jump!"   
  
"Sorry."   
  
"How long have you been awake?" she asks, catching her breath.   
  
"A little before you got out of bed, I think," he says and he starts to face her. When he does, he gently wipes a strand of hair from her forehead. It must have gotten free from the quick, messy braid she tied her hair when they got into bed earlier.   
  
"Why didn't you say anything?"   
  
"I thought you were asleep," he responds, sounding terribly logical.   
  
"I thought you were asleep so I tried not to wake you and almost pulled a muscle," she says and laughs a little.   
  
"You pulled a muscle?" he asks, immediately worried. "Where?"   
  
A joyfully wicked thought occurs to Elsie and she takes his hand and put it on the inside of her thigh.   
  
"Here," she says and she is thrilled by the way Charles catches on so quickly. His fingers gently press into her flesh.   
  
"Around here?" he checks and she kisses him.   
  
"A little higher," she whispers.   
  
His hands are rougher than they were when they were first married - it’s the digging and pruning and raking, but it only adds to her anticipated happiness. Or so she suspects.   
  
"Here?"   
  
She shakes her head. "No… a little higher still…"   
  
He complies and she can feel him smile in the dark.

“Are you sure?” He asks softly and she squirms a little, already feeling her heart speeding up. 

“Yes, but I think it is just a little… a little high- oh!”

His hand is right _ there _ and he parts her tenderly, softly touching her with gently probing fingers. Elsie's breath hitches when he slides the pad of his finger over that little nub and Charles takes note, because he does it again. And again. Elsie makes a little noise - not quite a whimper, not quite a moan and Charles slides his finger further back and forth and Elsie opens her legs a little wider, pulls up her knee.   
  
"Do that again?" she asks with a shaking voice.   
  
He does. And she can feel that delicious tightening, climbing sensation that she knows will ultimately make her fly and then soar. She felt it that afternoon when she sat astride her husband and she has felt it before, sometimes and that grey afternoon when they first did this in the light of day.   
  
Elsie presses her head back into the mattress, her shoulders lifting of it and she is making little noises: high pitched and throaty. "Don't stop…" she manages when he momentarily takes his hand off of her. But it takes a little time before he returns to her, but it's only because he has made himself more comfortable. He touches her again - the springy flesh that's so warm and slippery, that little nub that's so sensitive and needy.   
  
When Charles's lips land on her breast, and he licks her nipple, she bucks against his hand - it's all too much and it's not enough. Her blood is rushing in her ears, drowning out the noise of the creaking bed and her moans.   
  
"Kiss me," she asks and he does. Not softly or sweet, but fiercely, as if he wants to devour her. He takes his hand away again and she slaps his shoulder until he - surprisingly quickly for a man of his size, his age - manoeuvres himself between her legs and lines himself up with her.   
  
Elsie wraps her arms around his neck and she can hear her cry echoing against the walls of their bedroom when he takes her. It's good - it was all that was missing earlier, though the quick rising has stopped. It doesn't matter, this is absolutely wonderful and she affirms it with every thrust.   
  
She is so much smaller than Charles and she is totally obscured by him and though she is absolutely filled and slowly resuming her steady climb to that feeling she wants, needs, that will lead to a release she knows will make her forget everything, she thinks how extraordinary, amazing, magnificent it is to be able to sleep in the nude with your husband.   
  
That you can make love and touch and taste in the dark and that it is nothing like the disenchanting fumbles of the first months of their marriage. She ought to have spoken up sooner and she shouldn't have been so afraid of being found wanton or lacking because she cannot imagine Charles being upset about this, about what they are doing right now.   
  
Wrapping her legs around Charles's waist, she catches his force and delights in it, spurring him on with whispers and moans. With words she didn't know she could say out loud.   
  
Charles pushes himself up on his knees and drags her close to him. Her legs still around his waist and he pounds into her again and she grabs the sheet, hand next to her hip and squeezes. Charles takes Elsie's hand and licks the top of her finger, which is electrifying.   
  
"Touch yourself," he asks - thought it might be an order and a self-respecting housekeeper follows a butler's order, so she places her finger where he had his earlier.   
  
"Yes, just like that, Elsie… just like that…" he grunts and she can feel herself grip him tighter as she relentlessly slides her fingers just _ there _ .   
  
Nearly there… nearly there… the bed creaks and the sheets crumple under her and around her. A droplet of perspiration trails from her forehead down her cheek into her neck. So close… nearly there… she watches Charles move in and out of her and it is captivating, naughty, forbidden. Tempting.   
  
Charles's thrusts become jerky and she knows what that means, but she isn't not ready. She is so close, he can't stop now and she tells him:   
  
"Wait… wait for me… wait… I love you…"   
  
"I love you too," he says through gritted teeth, obviously trying to hold back and Elsie touches herself frantically, circling that little nub and then - almost suddenly - she falls over the edge, a scream stifled in her throat, her head tilted backwards, the sheet pulled up off the bed, her legs like a vice around her husband. Her husband who shocks once, twice more and stills as well.   
  
Elsie thinks of absolutely nothing for long, long seconds.   
  
When she starts to come down from flying, her eyes are still squeezed shut and she needs to uncurl her toes soon - soon before she gets a cramp, but not yet, she is still soaring. She can feel her throat burning, but it's still a pain in the background and she slowly she lifts her head so she can lie normally.   
  
Goodness…   
  
Something as treasured as this is surely wasted on the young.   
  
With ginger movements she unwraps herself and finds that in her dazed completion she didn't notice that she wasn't the only one who found completion and it's so odd to have almost missed it.   
  
Elsie brings in her leg and her hips are aching, but it's from use, not age and she doesn't mind much as Charlie lies down beside her and gathers her in his arms. His shoulder is a little too high to be comfortable for a long period, but a few minutes will be nice.   
  
She yawns, and burrows against Charles's shoulder.   
  
"Thank you…" she mumbles and it's a ridiculous thing to say but the words just fall from her mouth.   
  
"I think it's me who should thank you…" he answers and she smiles before kissing his chest with uncoordinated movements before moving to lie on her pillow.   
  
She should be cleaning herself up, but her bed is so nice and warm and soft and she is terribly sleepy. Just as she drifts off, she can hear Charlie ask her something, but she can't quite make out the words.   
  
If it's important, he'll ask her again, she barely manages to think before falling into a deep, satisfied, sleep.

* * *

* The UK is metric now but it wasn't then I think; I will have to google that later  
  
  


  
  



	26. Day 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is coming in sight and there are a few loose ends to wrap up - as well as wordcounts to match. I hope you'll enjoy this little in-between chapter!

**Day 26**

It is much too early when the alarm goes off and Elsie Carson raises her arm, slaps the offending object and returns to her husband's arms. She is sleepy and warm and her body feels deliciously free. Next to her Charles is breathing evenly. He must have woken from the alarm, but he doesn't show it and Elsie - for the first time in her life - considers not going in for the day.   
  
Of course she will. She'll stretch and leave the cocoon of love and warmth and clean herself up. She will put on her clothes, layer by layer and do up her hair. She hopes she'll be able to get rid of the knots that must have formed during the night.   
  
She'll go downstairs and make a pot of tea for Charles, put on her hat and coat and walk down the lane to the house.    
  
She will.   
  
Elsie Hughes is the Housekeeper and she has her post, as much as an officer on the battlefield.    
  
But it is lovely to dream about sleeping for another hour, or perhaps even two. About running a bath and asking Charles to assist her in cleaning up the mess they made during the night. Pottering about the house; making tea and drinking it together. Challenging Charles to make them toast with the electrical toaster and maybe… just maybe, if all the stars align and they have been fully restored from their nightly exertions and she has remade the bed with fresh sheets and pillowcases, they can try to recreate the joy she felt a few hours earlier.   
  
"Isn't it getting late?" Charles says and his voice is a little rough, which pleases Elsie enormously.   
  
"It is. But I would rather be with you," she answers and is surprised her own voice is every little bit as cracked as her husband's. Not shocked. Not between them - not after the way he moved her.   
  
"You'll miss breakfast."   
  
"I could have a piece of toast here with you, if you make it for me while I get ready?"    
  
She hardly recognises herself at these words. Trying to convince her very dutiful husband to be an accomplice of her tardiness. She can feel him chuckle and he turns to face her.    
  
"How about I'll walk you over."   
  
"And have you walk back by yourself in this weather? I don't particularly want to go into work, but I definitely don't want to lose you to pneumonia."    
  
"I'm not made of sugar, Elsie. You knitted me a warm scarf and I have a coat that will keep me sufficiently warm on our walk and it will still keep me warm on my way back."

* * *

"Mrs Hughes?"   
  
"Yes, Mrs Patmore?"   
  
"Do you have a moment?"   
  
Elsie glances at the clock, at the linen rota, the laundry bill. The ink stain on her middle finger. She's been getting distracted, remembering the exquisite naughtiness she and Charles got up to during the night. Then she didn't want to get up. In all honesty she has already given up on this day.   
  
"I do for you," she says and she indicated the chair by the door before getting up and joining her friend.    
  
They settle the way they have been doing for many years.   
  
"So, tell me: what can I do for you?"   
  
It's odd sitting like this without a teapot between them. Without a biscuit tin or a plate with custard tarts. Nothing to keep her hands occupied. Nothing to hide behind. Nothing to help her fill the time she sometimes needs to think of answers.   
  
"When did you know Mr Carson was going to ask you to marry him?"   
  
Elsie laughs. "I had absolutely  _ no idea _ Mr Carson was going to propose that night!"   
  
"But you knew that he was… I mean… that he was planning to?"   
  
Mrs Patmore - Beryl - is looking upset. Her normally rosy cheeks are pale and her eyebrows are pulled into a worried frown.   
  
"Do you Mr Mason is planning to ask you?" Elsie asks, feeling a warm wave of excitement rushing through her.    
  
"I don't want him to ask at the wedding," Beryl is wringing her hands and looking imploringly at Elsie.   
  
"I highly doubt he will drop on one knee while Daisy and Andy are taking their vows," Elsie tries to inject a bit of common sense.   
  
"But what if he asks at the reception?"   
  
"Honestly, Beryl. Mr Mason won't do or say anything that could spoil Daisy's wedding in even the slightest way. You seem very sure he is going to ask you, though."   
  
Elsie's curiosity is met with a shy nod.   
  
"Bill has been putting a surprise together for Daisy and Andy and he asked me to help him. He is a very nice man… very kind," Mrs Patmore starts explaining and Elsie listens attentively.    
  
"He has commissioned Mr Granger to make a beautiful wardrobe and he wanted to ask me about the curtains in the room Daisy will be sleeping in and…"   
  
"Yes?" Elsie bites the inside of her cheek so she wouldn't smile too brightly.   
  
"Don't you think that's… I don't know…" Beryl looks so lost and worried and it's all that Elsie can do not to reach out and take her friend's hand.   
  
"What do I think? I think it is a very nice gesture. Setting up the young couple with a new wardrobe."    
  
"But to ask me what I think of it? And showing me the other rooms upstairs…"   
  
Now it is Elsie's time to frown. "He didn't…" she starts but Beryl shakes her head vehemently.   
  
"Bill would never! He wouldn't. He is a gentleman, Elsie."   
  
"And that is why you don't have to worry he will ask you at the wedding. He wouldn't. Or are you worried because you don't want him to ask you?"    
  
Just because Elsie thinks that Beryl would very much like to be with Mr Mason, she has never right out asked her friend. It's the one thing she has learned from the past weeks: to not assume. To ask. To be clear.    
  
To communicate.   
  
But Beryl blushes, finally warming up those cold-looking cheeks. "It's a little bit silly," she says' "But then I look at you and Mr Carson and I am reminded that… you know... "   
  
"Know what?" Elsie asks.   
  
"We can find love later in life and that we can be happy."

* * *

He's been building some nice routines for himself. Every week he finds himself in the mobile library and every week he goes to the post office for a sheet of five stamps. When he has returned his books and he has taken out two new ones and when he has suffered through the post mistresses idle chatter, he goes to the pub and he has lunch there.   
  
Sometimes he finds someone who doesn't object to him joining their table for shepherd's pie or sausage and mash. He is learning. Friendship is a complicated thing and he doesn't have a lot of experience.    
  
Today he is lucky, for Bill Mason is sitting in his favourite corner and there's toad in the hole on the menu. Charles orders two pints of bitter at the bar and he sets one down for Mr Mason.   
  
"How are things?" he asks and it's a strange sentence, one he isn't used to yet, but no matter. It fits better with the man he is becoming than 'how are you?'..   
  
"Fine. Everything is set for the wedding." Mr Mason picks up his pint and glugs away half of it.    
  
Charles doesn't quite know what to say, but the look on his face is apparently enough because Mr Mason sighs like a storm and starts talking without needing any prompting.   
  
"I asked Beryl to help me out with the curtains and she was chattering away and all I could think was 'I could ask her now' but I didn't."   
  
Charles nods solemnly. He remembers very well trying to pluck up the courage to ask Elsie. Suggesting they would invest in a property together; looking at various houses together. Her admittance of not having the money to invest. Buying Brouncker Road in both their names.   
  
A whole song and dance that ended with him in the end almost impulsively asking Elsie to marry him and she had been surprised. He can still see her standing in the low light with the two cups of punch. Her confused expression. The way she thought she was clear in her answer and his uneasy inquiry.    
  
She called him a word he had never heard her use before.   
  
She calls him names he would normally associate with unkindness at the very least, but when she says them… it's endearing. They are words she uses in love.    
  
Mr Mason's words rouse him from his thoughts. "I should have just asked. I can't ask her at the wedding. That wouldn't be right."   
  
Charles agrees wholeheartedly.   
  
"When… erm… did you ask Mrs Mason?" he asks, flustered, unsure if it is a question you can ask.   
  
"I didn't. I asked her father and her father agreed. It's what you did in those days. I can't be doing that now, not with Beryl. I was only a lad then, but now both Beryl and I: we're getting on a bit."    
  
Charles drinks from his bitter and considers the options. He wouldn't recommend buying a house for the woman you hope will marry you one day. It's pricey and it makes things unnecessarily complicated.   
  
"Go for a walk. Just… ask. I've known Mrs Patmore for over fifty years. She appreciates plain speaking."   
  
The barman waves them down to pick up their lunches and Mr Mason goes to fetch them. Charles watches the man as he walks to the bar. Butlers aren't very often confronted with pig farmers who want to ask cooks to marry them, if at all. So he has to take a step back and listen. There is no solution for Mr Mason's conundrum.    
  
When Mr Mason returns with the steaming plates, Charles tuks in and waits for Mr Mason to speak, but there's nothing coming, so he takes a breath and says:   
  
"I asked Elsie at the most inconvenient moment of the whole year. She wasn't prepared for it. I don't recommend doing that."   
  
Bill Mason sighs again. "Thanks for the advice, Mr Carson."

  
  



	27. Day 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big decisions and big worries about them - I hope you enjoy day 27

**Day 27**

"Charles?"   
  
"Yes?" Charles looks up from his book and takes off his glasses.    
  
"What do you think of Miss Baxter?"   
  
"I think she is a very good Lady's Maid. I have never heard her Ladyship complain," Charles says and Elsie shrugs a little at that. It's not what she means. It's important that she gets this right. That she makes the right decision.   
  
"I mean: as a person."   
  
Charles frowns and taps his glasses on his book and he looks a little like a scholar or maybe a clergyman - he didn’t wear them when he was still working alongside her and perhaps he would never have shown them. In the past Butlers weren’t supposed to need them. 

There was no such thing as a bespectacled senior servant. But times have changed and good staff is hard to find. Employers overlook the minor imperfections these days. 

“Miss Baxter always strikes me as quiet but strong. A little nervous, perhaps. She knows her way around the servants and she is always kind to all of them.”

Elsie agrees. Miss Baxter is kind to everyone and she has built a special relationship with Mr Molesley that is more than friendship. Which was a worry until Elsie reminded herself that she herself doesn’t live at the house anymore. 

Housekeepers don’t necessarily have to keep the young ones in check. The protective side of the job has lessened considerably: the evenings are dangerous because the girls walk home in the dark, not because they try to sneak into the woman’s landing. 

There are fewer young men visiting and with them fewer male servants. Lord Grantham never posed a threat. Neither did Lord Hexam. Elsie remembers worrying about Mr Talbot: a very attractive, dashing man who appeared to indulge in the exciting ways of life. But even he has proven he can be trusted. So far.

Elsie doubts Miss Baxter would be able to stand up to intimidating men and there is of course the Lady’s Maid past to consider, but maybe…

“Why do you ask? Has something happened?”

“No, nothing’s happened. I’m considering my options and there aren’t as many as there used to be.”

"Miss Baxter will no doubt be happy to help," Charles says, delightfully obtuse and Elsie picks up her cup of tea.   
  
Elsie isn't so sure. Miss Baxter isn't particularly ambitious and her place in the Crawley household was doctored by Thomas - though she suspects she isn't supposed to know that. She can fill store cupboards with things she isn't supposed to know and that is part of being a housekeeper: to keep those secrets, to be discreet, to know when to share and when to hold your piece.    
  
Miss Baxter can keep secrets. But can she work and thrive while knowing things you aren't supposed to know?    
  
Her tea is cold and stewed and Elsie can't make up her mind. Of course Anna could do it. At the drop of a hat. She would excel at it and make changes, modernise things and be very happy, but with another baby on the way, Elsie doubts Anna will want to take on the job. It's more involved than being a lady's maid. There's less mending and preciously little hair to be coiffed (though you can always be expected to step in when and where needed) and a lot more tallying, budgeting and bartering. There's standing in front of the lady of the house and listening to orders you know are not practical. It's breaking up the fights of young girls who work together closely.   
  
It's showing how to plump a pillow, how to make a bed, how to remove a stain from the carpet time and time again until you do it so routine you forget if you've actually told them all they need to know. Miss Baxter would have the patience for that, but Anna may not.   
  
Of course they could place an advertisement. Elsie responded to one and it landed her this job. The opportunity of a lifetime. She sent a letter, a letter of recommendation, references. She travelled to Downton to be interviewed by a young mother who was Becky's age. Who looked tired and anxious and with the startling clarity of hindsight, Elsie knows the lack of producing an heir was putting a significant amount of stress on the young heiress.    
  
Even then money couldn't buy you everything.   
  
She would never say it out loud, but sometimes Elsie feels as if there's something like a curse on the house. With the loss of Lady Grantham's unborn child; Lady Sybil dying in childbirth. Mr Crawley losing his life in a car accident. Lord Grantham accidentally - or mostly through lack of skill, knowledge and common sense - losing his wife's money. Lady Edith's room catching fire. The pain inflicted on Anna, the ruin of Ethel. Lady Edith being jilted and later the appearance of Miss Marigold. Thomas doing that dreadfully desperate thing. Lord Grantham's bloody turn in the dining room, Mr Pamuk dying in his bed. So many terrible things in the years Elsie has walked those endless halls.   
  
Elsie would add old Lady Grantham passing away, but old ladies die.    
  
It's the way of things.   
  
"Elsie?"   
  
She looks up from her teacup. "Yes?"   
  
"Are you alright?"   
  
"I have a lot on my mind," she answers and gives him a little smile. Trying to assure him it's nothing to worry about.   
  
"Can I help?" Charles puts away his book, his glasses. Leans in a little and she remembers so well the way they would discuss the little problems that popped up daily in the house. Broken boilers, upholsterer's mistakes.   
  
"Charlie?"   
  
"Yes, Elsie?" He smiles. That warm smile that makes her feel glowy and loved and for once in the perfect place.   
  
"How would you… I mean… What do you say if I said I thought it was time that I retired?"

* * *

Elsie has brought back flowers from the greenhouse and Beryl is baking a pie in the farm's kitchen. Something to welcome back the newlyweds from their week away. She notices how easily Beryl moves around the kitchen, pulling open drawers and hanging up the tea towel she has been using to wipe her hands on.   
  
"Have you heard from Daisy at all?" Elsie asks and Beryl puts down a sharp-looking knife before answering.   
  
"They sent me a postcard, but I doubt they spent much time thinking about home. I have wrapped up the top tier of their wedding cake and put it in the larder here. I didn't want to keep it at the house - it didn't feel right."   
  
"It should be in their home, I agree."    
  
Elsie didn't save the top tier of her wedding cake.    
  
"Let's hope we'll have some time before pulling it out." Mrs Patmore has her back to Elsie and it's good, too, because Elsie is rolling her eyes.    
  
"I thought I bake them a pie for dinner. Daisy can just heat it up and it will be enough for three, though I think Bill - Mr Mason - said he was going to have his dinner at the pub. He doesn't want to get in their way."   
  
"That will be difficult, since he lives here," Elsie says, "They'll need to get used to the new living arrangements. Both Andy and Mr Mason are easy-going enough. I'm sure it will work out," she tries to smooth out the words that sounded much more like her husband than she intended to.   
  
"Aye, I know and I told him, but he can be a right stubborn man."   
  
Beryl puts the knife in the sink and Elsie hasn't paid attention to what her friend was doing, but it doesn't matter. She doubts she could have helped - she is aware of her shortcomings and Beryl would almost too gladly point them out as well.   
  
"He's not asked you, yet, has he?" Elsie asks and Beryl turns around.    
  
"Not yet. But I doubt it will be long. I hope he won't do it over Christmas, I have far too much to do."   
  
Elsie laughs out loud and she touches her friend's arm. "You seem confident he will ask you."   
  
"You'd think he would have plucked up courage by now. It's been weeks since I had an inkling he might ask me. But he does this thing - you know - when men open their mouths and you can tell that there were words supposed to come out but there's nothing and they close up and turn around."    
  
Elsie nods. She knows about the uhm-ing and err-ing well enough. Lately it's been her who has been doing the same thing.   
  
"If he doesn't ask me soon, I'll be forced to ask him," Beryl puts her hands at her waist and Elsie truly believes her friend would have few qualms taking control of the situation.   
  
"But I'd rather he asked me. It would be nice, I think."   
  
Elsie smiles. "It is nice."   
  
"Until then, I just have to be patient." Mrs Patmore has many virtues, but patience has never been one of them, but Elsie doesn't say anything. Beryl has been showing great restraint in not forcing Mr Mason to pop the question so far.   
  
"Beryl?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Do you ever think about retiring?" Elsie asks, a little suddenly, but it's a question that can safely be answered in this kitchen. Yew Tree Farm has always been a place where secrets were kept.   
  
"Of course I do. I'd say hardly a day goes by," Beryl speaks so plainly, it surprises Elsie.   
  
"You do?"   
  
"Would be strange if we didn't. With Mr Carson already retired, I think it's high time I did. I was already breaking my back in that kitchen before he  _ left _ for London." Beryl pauses, turns around and opens to oven to check on the pie. When she closes it again - apparently not satisfied the crust has sufficiently browned - she continues: "Daisy is ready."    
  


  
  



	28. Day 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 28 and it feels so near and yet so far, but the fifty thousand mark is getting in sight. Almost there… almost...

**Day 28 **

"But Daisy… she's a child almost!" Elsie says, a little taken aback by the Cook's frank answers.  
  
"Daisy is exactly the age I was when I became Cook. She can easily do it. I am only there to supervise, really."   
  
"But…" Elsie suddenly feels as if the room is closing in on her. The kitchen feels strangely hot and she tries to reach for something to hold onto. 

There is nothing and a cold desperation settles over her: not enough to faint, not enough to throw up. Just enough to feel unsteady. As if the wind could knock you over any moment now.   
  
"What?"   
  
"I'll… I mean… I wouldn't… I don't…"   
  
There are tears in her eyes and she is valiantly trying not to spill them onto her cheeks, but to no avail. There's a handkerchief in her pocket - the loose pocket that goes with this dress. Tied around her wait, over her corset cover and it's impractical but she tries to find it nonetheless.   
  
"What's come over you?" Beryl asks, her Yorkshire accent magnified in the farm kitchen. She takes Elsie's elbow and leads her to a chair where Elsie promptly sits down heavily.   
  
"Nothing… Just… I can't…"   
  
She can't string a coherent sentence together. She can't think straight. All she can think, suddenly, are thoughts she never had before. The loneliness she sometimes feels amplified tenfold. Not having Charles around is one thing, but to not hear Beryl's voice in the Servants' Hall… Elsie doesn't think she could stand it.   
  
"I talked to Charles," she starts with great difficulty. Her throat burns, she has to force her voice to form the words and it's taking tremendous effort.   
  
"I suspect you do that, yes, from time to time, seeing the pair of you are married."   
  
"About retiring," Elsie finishes, trying to ignore Beryl's remark. "I don't know if I can. I think I would like to. To spend more time at the cottage. But…"   
  
"But: what?" Beryl asks, sitting down opposite Elsie. "That's normal, isn't it. For people our age? We're not getting any younger."   
  
"But, unlike you, I don't have anyone who could take over."

  
"That's Lady Grantham's concern, though. Isn't it?"   
  
Elsie shakes her head. "You can say that, because you have Daisy who knows exactly what the family likes. She knows how they want their eggs scrambled, what they want to serve their guests. She has seen you put together a menu hundreds of times. She knows how to schedule everything just right so both upstairs and downstairs will receive their meals in time and splendidly cooked."   
  
"That is true, but Daisy will be leaving in time and then Lady Grantham will need someone new. That is just the way it goes. Mr Carson didn't complain, did he?"   
  
Elsie stands up abruptly. "He had Thomas! He taught Thomas _ everything _ the boy knows. Every single thing! Thomas started as a fourteen year old lad and Charles has trained him and Thomas knows exactly how long Lord Grantham takes in the billiards' room after dinner and he knows how you announce a viscount or a duke. The ledgers were the only things that were new to him and I guided him in those."   
  
"A new housekeeper would know how to do all of those things." Beryl is being infuriatingly turning Elsie's worries into the simplest issues that are barely worth resolving.   
  
"I think your pie is catching," Elsie says, no longer wanting to discuss her fears with Beryl.   
  
Even if her friend is right.

* * *

"Beryl thinks I am making too much of things," Elsie says that evening.   
  
The bed has become a place of refuge. They talk easier when they are under the covers, shrouded in semi darkness.   
  
"Are you?"   
  
Elsie runs her hand over Charles's chest. They've become accustomed to sleeping in the nude - it's enormously comforting to be curled into Charles, feeling his soft skin against her own. Of course it's one less barrier to be _ close _ but more often than not, they just fall asleep like this. Cushioned in a way.   
  
"Possibly."   
  
"What are you thinking that Mrs Patmore considers to be too much?" Charles is running the back of his fingers over her arm and she is so safe and so much where she is meant to be; all she wants is to be like this forever.   
  
"That she has Daisy to take over from her when the time comes. That you had Thomas stepping in your shoes. That once upon a time I thought I had Anna, but I don't anymore and I will have to surrender my post to somebody I don't know and that…"   
  
"That?"   
  
"That I can't."   
  
Elsie rubs her face against the soft spot where Charles's arm meets his shoulder and sighs.   
  
"It's ridiculous," she says and she can hear how the R rolls from her tongue. "I never thought of Downton Abbey as my home and the family was never _ my _ family, but…"   
  
Charles pulls her closer and kisses her hair. "I know you don't feel the same as I do," he starts and kisses her again, "But I do know that being Housekeeper has been your life's work."

Elsie can feel a tear sliding down her face and she rubs it away, irritated that this is making her emotional.  
  
"I've been only a housekeeper for so long… it was all I was. To hand over everything I worked for… to someone I have never even laid eyes upon. It's just impossible."   
  
"That's why you asked what I think of Miss Baxter."   
  
"Miss Baxter is clever and wise and she has considerable skill, but I don't know if she could stand up to cheeky maids and footmen. I don't know if she can stand firm when requests are impossible to fulfill. I know she is capable of tallying the ledgers and of looking after the few girls who live in, but I don't know if she can be strong when discussing a bill when it’s overcharging."   
  
"I have the nagging feeling Mr Molesley has a plan for Miss Baxter as well," Charles says and he makes it sound so ominous Elsie cannot help but smile.   
  
"They are both gentle souls and they will have a good life together once he decides that it's time to ask her."   
  
"A good life?"   
  
"Yes," Elsie says decidedly and pushes herself up a little so she can kiss Charles's cheek. "A good and happy life."   
  
"I don't think being housekeeper would make Miss Baxter happy," Charles says honestly and Elsie hates that she has to agree.

* * *

"You asked to speak with me, Mrs Hughes?" Lady Grantham asks and she is standing very straight by the bright red sofa Elsie and Charles once had the audacity to try. Until they were walked in on by Thomas.  
  
"I did, Milady."   
  
"What can I do to help you?"   
  
Elsie steadies herself, thinks about the countless times she has checked the mantle for dust, the times she oversaw a scullery maid clean out the grate.   
  
"Milady, I think the time has come for me…" Elsie stops and takes a breath, but there's no need, because Lady Grantham smiles that knowing smile and finishes the sentence for her.   
  
"You would like to retire. I understand. I have been dreading the moment ever since you and Carson tied the knot."   
  
Elsie nods. "I would, Milady and I know it is inconvenient, but I would like to spend more time with Mr Carson. While we still can."   
  
She exaggerates because she knows Lady Grantham is sensitive to romance, to happiness.   
  
"I understand. Do you have an idea as to whom you would see as Housekeeper next?"   
  
Lady Grantham sits down on the sofa and Elsie stands, as she has has stood a thousand times, her fingers braided in front of her, her dress a dull contrast to the opulent room and the beautiful frock Lady Grantham wears. A stark reminder that she is a servant - high in rank, perhaps, but a servant.   
  
"Anna, perhaps?" Elsie offers, "Though I doubt she will want to take on the job."   
  
"I agree. It's a demanding job when you also have a family to raise," Lady Grantham says and Elsie steels herself, keeping her thoughts to herself. That it is a tough job without having to raise a family, that it requires dedication and intelligence and stamina.   
  
"It crossed my mind to nominate Miss Baxter for the job," she says instead and Lady Grantham shakes her head.   
  
"No. No, I don't think so. Baxter is a wonderful Lady's Maid. I wouldn't want to be without her."   
  
Elsie hadn't considered that, but it doesn't matter why Miss Baxter won't be succeeding Elsie.   
  
"Then I suggest placing an advertisement. Or perhaps contacting an agency," Elsie says and Lady Grantham sighs.   
  
"I've been so lucky hiring you."   
  
"Thank you, Milady. I will give you my letter of resignation in the morning."   
  
Elsie worries her lip. She has done it. She can't take it back. In two weeks she will no longer be Housekeeper and she will not train the new girls how to vacuum the stairs, how to pull back the curtains, how to mend your hems on the go. Elsie unfolds her hands and starts to turn, but she is stopped by Lady Grantham's voice:   
  
"Mrs Hughes?"   
  
"Yes, Milady?"   
  
"I am aware that you have been paramount to making Downton Abbey a much loved house. You have been performing miracles in times of budget cuts and lack of staff and I would like to assure you that your exemplary service will be rewarded in a way that is fitting for someone who has dedicated their life to us."   
  
Elsie can feel a blush rising to her cheeks. She isn't used to praise. Elsie has been dismissing the few compliments she received over the years with the quiet confidence of someone who knows their worth, but hearing that she has been appreciated is unexpectedly making her tear up.   
  
When somehow word got out that she might be ill, Lady Grantham had called her into the master bedroom and offered her a safe space and proper care, but that was different. That was borne from pity and charity.   
  
"Thank you, Milady."   
  
And with that Elsie leaves the Library. She opens the green baize door, runs down the stairs to the Servants' Hall and into her parlour where she wrenches her handkerchief from her pocket and presses it against her face so nobody can hear her crying.

  
  



	29. Day 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been times I didn't think I could rise to the challenge, but I slowly but steadily trampled all over it and CRUSHED it. CRUSHED IT I TELL YOU. This is the final episode of this year's NaNoWriMo.   
Thank you everybody for being encouraging, kind and lovely. Your support is what pulled me through.

**Day 29**

Today is her last day and Elsie has tallied her ledgers, written her suppliers and after many tries finally composed a letter to the new housekeeper to wish her luck. She was reminded of the few lines left by Mrs Bute that time Elsie was called to London to save the season.    
  
Did she ever look back and think she made the wrong decision in leaving? Elsie has been saying goodbye to the house all morning and reminiscing. There isn't a room in the house that she hasn't cleaned. Not a hallway she hasn't walked. Every corner of the house holds memories and as she made her rounds - her final rounds, as she has told herself, but finds difficult to believe - they kept plaguing her.   
  
The first time she saw Charles. Not in the Servants' Hall but coming out of Lord Grantham's dressing room. He hadn't said a word, only nodded. He was very tall and with his dark hair and straight back he was the personification of the ambitious servant.   
  
She remembers being shown to her bedroom. One she wouldn't be sharing. The walls were painted a sickly green and the mattress was lumpy. There was a side-to-middle sheet on the bed and a prickly blanket. She didn't sleep under it long: once she was promoted to Housekeeper she had convinced Lady Grantham it was time the servants' bedrooms needed new beds and blankets.   
  
Elsie used to have terrible fights with Beryl and by now she understands better why they did. It was never over a man or over their respective positions. She suspects it was the fighting of sisters where the one will always needle the other and it's almost an outlet for all the mishaps and setbacks and pent up frustration they were met with all day every day. 

Beryl would explode, bang pots and pans, slam doors. Her cheeks would flush and her eyes would shoot fire. Elsie could feel the colour drain from her cheeks and her back would straighten further. Her anger would turn her heart and words into ice. 

Elsie remembers Daisy’s fear of electricity and Miss O’Brien’s cigarettes. The few weeks Mr Lang was with them and the way every day has fallen into the next and how she grew from a young woman into an old one unnoticed. 

She takes a deep breath - as deep as her corset will allow - and goes down the stairs from the attic to the first floor landing. She runs her finger over the plinth and checks automatically for dust. 

There isn’t any. 

There never is. 

The red carpet is plush and her feet sink into it as they have done for thirty years and with every door she opens, Elsie is reminded of the dustpan and brush, the shammy leathers. The lemons, the bluing, the Sunlight soap. 

The sound of curtains being drawn, the smell of starch when making a sheet fly and billow over an unmade bed. 

The little tricks of her trade and the advice given to her by other housekeepers, shopkeepers, ladies. 

Her mother. 

“ _ You’re not a bad-looking lass, but if you dinnae take Joe, you must be prepared to make it alone. _ ”

So Elsie made it alone by choice. She made it to a small house near the farm and to a slightly larger one in Aberdeen. She made it to Edinburgh, to Yorkshire. 

To Downton. She met a few men who showed an interest and she turned all of them down. 

Until that sunlit day at the end of the Season and she decided that she could have died but didn’t and how it ought to make her brave. She doesn’t know exactly how long she has loved him, and it doesn't matter. All that matters is that he took her hand and that it felt unusual but not wrong.    
  
They waded for half an hour. Just the pair of them with not a care in the world besides not tripping. Or stepping into a jellyfish. Of trouser legs and skirt hems getting wet; of her hat flying. There was just the salty air and the screeching of seagulls overhead. For half an hour Elsie didn't think about the coal delivery, the laundry bill, her charges having a rough time or making fools of themselves.   
  
Elsie is reminded of the list of virtues Mrs Beeton bestowed upon the housekeeper in her book. The past thirty years Elsie has been as honest as possible, as sober as possible and she has been very lucky to have Mrs Patmore instructing the young ladies in the art of preparing simple dishes.   
  
The boiling of a kettle or an egg. Toasting bread. Preparing a salmon mousse and a roast chicken. All the things Elsie can do and then some. She smiles as she walks on, turning corners, looking into guestrooms. Another corner, endless years of polishing banisters and the nursery door is closed. Elsie leaves it that way. She doesn’t know if she could say goodbye to the little ones.    
  
She might see them in the village or in church and she doesn't want to upset any of them.   
  
Or herself.   
  
Her limbs feel heavy. She needs to take great care not to let her feet drag. Lord and Lady Grantham have said their goodbyes in the morning before they left for London to dine with Lady Rosamund. Lady Mary and Mr Talbot are staying at Brancaster for the New Year's celebrations Lord Hexam puts on for his friends and peers. There is nobody left upstairs to see her slump as Tom - Mr Branson - is managing his automobile dealership in town.   
  
She goes down the great staircase into the great hall and the Christmas tree is dark. They only turn on the electric lights when there is someone there to see them and it's a little how she feels: stripped of her sparkle. Which is nonsense, because she is still the same person she always was.   
  
In the morning room Elsie straightens the cushions on the sofa and in the library she puts the books back Miss Sybbie and Master George have been reading earlier.    
  
One last look at the fireplace. One last pull at a curtain so the pleats fall exactly right. One last look from the window towards the folly.   
  
The final swing of the green baize door and the sound of her shoes on the worn out stairs.    
  
"Goodbye, house," she whispers. "Goodbye."

* * *

The Servants' Hall is warm and inviting. The staff are all gathered around the table and pots of tea and plates of toasted teacakes, thick slices of bread and rounds of shortbread are neatly arranged on platters.    
  
Her last meal with the servants as their housekeeper. She feels oddly stifled, as if she can't properly move. Her mouth is a little dry, but a cup of tea will fix that. A cup of tea, a biscuit; the tools of housekeepers everywhere. The murmur of conversation to silence the incoherent thoughts that are going through Elsie's mind:   
  
You never thought of this place as your home - I will miss being here - I lived most of my life under this roof - who am I if I am no longer Housekeeper - how did Charlie manage to stay dignified that last day - have I been clear enough in my explanation of the linen rota   
  
"Mrs Hughes?"   
  
Elsie turns towards Mr Barrow. She can't bring herself to smile, but acknowledges him with a simple hand gesture.   
  
Thomas clears his throat and she can see him making his mind up about what to say; his words coming softly, almost whispered:   
  
"I will miss you, Mrs Hughes."   
  
Elsie sighs. "I'm sure you and the new housekeeper will get on. Of course it will take some time to get used to her…"   
  
"That's not what I mean." Thomas says and it is a little abrupt, a little hurt. A little offended.   
  
"Oh…"    
  
"When I started here as a lad, I was always complaining about how strict you were and how you kept the maids on such a short leash," he starts and Elsie's lip twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it could turn into one. Maybe. Perhaps not today.   
  
"I didn't see how far you went to protect and nurture. But when I needed to hear them, you were there with a kind word. With quiet understanding. I know you defended me to Mr Carson."   
  
Elsie shrugs. "Everyone needs someone in their corner, Thomas."   
  
"You didn't have to do it, but you did. I'm thankful," he responds and Elsie nods.    
  
"It was nice of Mr Ellis to visit for Christmas when he was staying with his family," she says and she hopes he understands. That Thomas can read between the lines, but she shouldn't have worried, because that's his greatest strength; reading between the lines.    
  
He is blushing a little and Elsie is pleased she has played a small part in a happier side of Thomas's life.    
  
"Yes, it has. With any luck we shall meet during the Season," Thomas says and Elsie does find a smile after all.   
  
Thomas returns to his tea and buttered bread. Mrs Patmore fills Elsie's cup a second time. They don't speak - there will be time for that later. They'll not lose touch. The coming few weeks they'll see each other at church and perhaps bump into one another in the village while running errands. Mrs Patmore will solidly become Beryl and they'll call on the other.    
  
Like friends do.    
  
Miss Baxter has given Elsie a small box of beautiful handkerchief with lace edges and hand-embroidered monograms. "To remember me by," she said and it had been a shy, gentle goodbye. One made in the early hours before Miss Baxter got in the car with Lord and Lady Grantham. Anna isn't there either, nor is Mr Bates. They'll visit once they return, Anna has promised Elsie.    
  
Daisy embraces Elsie once the teacups have all been drained and there's not a teacake left on the plates. "Come to the farm Sunday. I'll do you a nice roast," she offers and it's so simple and delightful, Elsie agrees.    
  
The maids shake her hand, the hallboy gives her a shy 'goodbye' and Elsie goes into the hall and picks her coat from the rack. She doesn't go into her parlour - it's too hard. Too much. She has said her goodbyes before she went on her rounds. Going in would nullify her earlier efforts.   
  
She puts on her coat and her hat and there's only Beryl in the hallway with her, the rest of the staff has returned to their duties and that's good. That is how Elsie prefers it.    
  
"We'll see you Sunday," Beryl says and she hands Elsie a tin. "Custard tarts," she elaborates. "I doubt you'll be making those at home."   
  
"Thank you."    
  
"Go home. Have a cry," Beryl advices and Elsie nods. She turns and opens the door.    
  
Charles is leaning against the wall, looking dashing in his long coat and new hat.

"Are you ready?" he asks.   
  
Elsie nods and pulls her coat tighter around herself before putting her arm through his.   
  
"Yes. Let's go home."

  
  



	30. Day 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I went over the fifty-thousand mark yesterday and did finish the fic (in great JK Rowling style as I had written the final line before even starting this beast), but you all know I can't resist a fluffy epilogue.
> 
> I want to thank each one of you who has liked, commented and reblogged, who left kudos or messaged me. Thank you for your support. Your kindness kept me going. You'd think I would take a loooong nap now, but no... there's a fic waiting for me. 
> 
> Isn't there always?

**Day 30**

When Elsie retired the family decided that the reward towards someone who had dedicated their life to their home and comfort for thirty-five years would be something for the cottage and that it how it came to pass that Charles and Elsie Carson have a wireless in their home.   
  
The license fee of ten shillings does come from the Carson's household account, but it's worth it in Elsie's eyes. She enjoys the music and the stories. With her eyesight not being what it was, it is easier to listen to the news than it is to read it in the newspaper. She likes to listen to the voices of the newsreaders - not as much as she likes to listen to Charles, of course, but goes without saying.  
  
No. Not without saying. She has learned over the months that speaking things is important. That she needs to talk to her husband for him to know how she feels, what she thinks, what she needs from him. It's not always easy. The feeling of depending on someone else will always be difficult, but she is learning. They have time, now.   
  
Though not this morning because it is springtime and Charles and Elsie have been invited to Sunday lunch at the farm and that's why they decided not to go to church. Elsie has been knitting in the front room, delighted with the bright weather they've been having. Charles has been pottering around the garden. He might come back inside soon with a few cut flowers.   
  
She loves that he is growing them especially for her. That those pansies and violets, phloxes and delphinium are all to please her. Not the flashy roses that Charles could prune and nurture and compete with. That she doesn't need wooing in that way.   
  
The clock on the mantle ticks steadily and Elsie can feel the need to get moving jump upon her the way a bell used to do. She sets aside her knitting - something small and welcome - and gets up from the sofa. She straightens slowly, can hear every bit of her click.  
  
It doesn't hurt. Not per se. Just… it's not nice. It is a reminder that in eighteen months your whole life can shift so much, you barely recognise yourself. The late nights and sleeping in whenever the mood takes them. The lack of nightgowns. Her new undergarments and how they meant she needed a new wardrobe.  
  
Which Charles lovingly provided the money for.  
  
She has been very frugal with that money. Miss Baxter has helped her some with the altering of a few dresses. Elsie almost brought in the dress she was married in, but decided against it. She needs it to stay the way it was.   
  
The way she hasn't gotten rid of the corset that had been her constant companion for over fifteen years. Elsie bites her lip and breathes in deeply. This is not the time to think about what she surprised Charles with on their anniversary…  
  
Elsie makes her way to the kitchen and lets the back door swing open wide.  
  
"Charlie! Charlie! It's almost time to go!"  
  
And as she predicted, her husband comes her way, holding some hydrangea flowers in his hand. He hands them over, takes off his hat and kisses her on the cheek. Elsie smiles.  
  
"What are these for?" she asks.  
  
"Because you are beautiful," he says and matches her smile.   
  
"You are a charmer, Mr Carson. But please wash up quickly because I wouldn't want us to be late."  
  
She turns around and finds a vase, fills it with water and puts in the flowers. They look very pretty in their various shades of pink and blue. Upstairs she can hear the water running and she puts the vase on the kitchen table.  
  
"I'm putting on my hat now!" she calls up.  
  
"Almost ready!"  
  
Familiar words in a familiar voice that she could not have imagined hearing being spoken five years ago. Now they are part of their life together. She is always ready before him - maybe because she somehow still lives by an internal clock she used when she wasn't free.  
  
"Are you ready to go?" Charles asks from the third stair and Elsie nods. She takes her coat and gives it to Charles who gallantly helps her into it. His hand is shaking and she has noticed that it's been rising up all the way to his shoulder. Sometimes, when they are sitting in the garden, late at night, drinking wine and reminiscing, she thinks she can see the tremor in the way he holds his head.  
  
There is nothing to do about it.   
  
"Aren't you going to put your coat on?"  
  
"Not necessary, really. It's a warm day."  
  
He opens the door and he holds out his hand to guide her over the threshold. A small gesture.  
  
So much love.

* * *

She loves the noise. The sounds of plates and cutlery clanging together, voices dipping and rising, footsteps scurrying from the hob to the counter to the table. Glasses being picked up and put down. The crisp scrubbing sound of roasted potatoes falling from the dish on the plate.   
  
There are times when she misses those noises. When being just the two of them is feeling meager and she is on the verge of being bored. She understands Charles and his garden better now, but she doesn't feel a need to help him.   
  
From the other side of the table she can hear Charles laughing and Bill - yes, Bill, how difficult it sometimes is to remember that they are friends, that there is no need to keep that professional distance - is looking pleased his joke has fallen on fertile ground.   
  
Andy is going round the table to top up wine glasses and Daisy is going back and forth between the kitchen and the table, putting down dishes. When finally all the food has arrived and everyone has their glasses filled, there is the smallest of lulls in the conversation and Beryl pipes up:  
  
"Daisy, don't you have an announcement to make?"  
  
It makes Elsie's heart jump and flip. Charles drops his fork on his plate with a loud clatter.  
  
"No, I don't. I can't make that happen any faster just so we can call you grandma!"   
  
Bill laughs out loud: "You tell her, Daisy!"  
  
Beryl blushes and shakes her head: "It would be nice to be called 'grandma' and 'grandpa' instead of Mrs Patmore and Mr Mason," she says.  
  
Elsie smiles softly at the table cloth.   
  
"You're going to have to be patient, Beryl," Bill replies and he reaches out over the table and takes his wife's hand in his.  
  
"No need to get soppy," Daisy interrupts the bittersweet moment between her chosen parents. "I'm sure it will happen at some point."  
  
"Do I smell something catching?" Beryl responds to Daisy's less than delicate words without looking away from Bill. Daisy jumps up and runs into the kitchen. The newlyweds let go of each other and Elsie dares to look up and is relieved to find her husband tucking into his roast.   
  
She doesn't doubt she'll hear more about Beryl's insensitive question when they're back home, but for now he is calm and Elsie relaxes. Daisy returns and she sits down next to Andy. She reaches for the dish of roasted potatoes and there's a blush high on her cheeks.

"Is everything alright in the kitchen?" Elsie asks and Daisy sighs.  
  
"Of course it is. I could have known."  
  
Elsie smiles at Daisy and is rewarded with a smile back. "Everything is absolutely splendid," she says and Charles makes a complimentary noise while he chews.  
  
"Thank you Mrs Hugh-... Mrs Carson. It's nothing fancy."  
  
"Oh, Mrs Carson prefers it when there's food that doesn't get stuck in your teeth," Beryl remarks naughtily and Elsie cannot help but chuckle a little at that. 

“Ignore her,” Elsie says. “This is a delicious Sunday lunch.”

“A rare treat,” Charles adds and looks up with a pained expression as everyone could hear him being kicked in the shin by Beryl.

”I didn’t mean it that way!” He exclaims and Elsie allows the laughter and camaraderie rush over her. Her fears of never belonging anywhere have been laid to rest. There are Sunday lunches at the farm and sometimes she visits Anna on her rare days off and cuddles Johnny and little May.

* * *

She feels light in his arms as he sways her to the sound of the waltzes that come streaming in from Hilversum. Her eyes closed, she lies her head against his shoulder.

Elsie smiles.

“That was a very nice lunch,” Charles says.

“Very nice,” Elsie easily agrees.

“Bill Mason is a lucky man.”

“Beryl is a lucky woman to receive his affections.”

Charles spins her around.

“Speaking of luck. Hello, you,” Charles says and Elsie laughs.

"Hello…" Elsie leans into the spin and blesses her new corset that has elasticated panels that allow her to bend and breathe.  
  
"What would you say if I told you I've gotten a terrible cramp from all this dancing?" Elsie asks with a little, knowing smile curling her lips.  
  
"I would offer you my assistance, of course."

"Always the Butler," Elsie remarks and she raises herself on her toes and kisses him softly. "The bed has been turned down," she adds.  
  
"Always the Housekeeper," Charles returns the sentiment and he takes her hand.   
  
They kiss at the bottom of the stairs.

"Can you manage with that terrible cramp?" Charles asks and Elsie nods.  
  
"I think I could manage practically anything with you by my side."  
  
"Even me?"  
  
"Especially you, Mr Carson," Elsie says and kisses her husband again before slowly making her way up the stairs.   
  
The bed is cool and inviting, her husband's hands are not as steady as they once were, but together they manage. Of course they will.  
  
They have always worked together well. Anticipating needs. Caring where they could. Between the loosening of her girdle and the unbuttoning of his shirt, they will sort it. They'll figure it out. They've come a long, long way and the end is nowhere in sight.


End file.
